LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



ilap..- - inp^rig^t lo.- 

Shelf.--..- : 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



TEN YEARS OF SONG 



IPocm0 



BY 



HORATIO NELSON POWERS 

AUTHOR OF "through THE YEAR," " POEMS EARLY AND LATE," 

AND ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF "THE HOMES AND 

HAUNTS OF OUR ELDER POETS " 



^ 



I^^ 




BOSTON 
D LOTHROP COMPANY 

Fkankhn and Hawlky Streets 



\X 



\ 






Copyright, 1887, by 
D LOTHROP COMPANY. 



Electrotyped 
By C. J. Peters & Son, Boston. 



BESSIE McELRATH and ADELINE HOFFMAN, 

THESE POEMS ARE AFFECTIONATELV 
INSCRIBED. 

H. N. P. 



PREFACE. 



The poems included in the main part of this 
volume were produced, at intervals, during the last 
ten years. Nearly all of them have appeared in the 
current literature of that period, and a number of 
them have found a place in various collections and 
anthologies. They were not written to illustrate any 
skill in literary technique, or partiality for a particu- 
lar school of the poetic art, but to express feelings 
and sentiments whose most natural vehicle is verse. 
As such, they are now collected and offered to the 
public. The author chiefly values such compositions 
according to their helpfulness to sincere natures, and 
on this ground he desires his work to be judged. 

To Harper's Magazine, which holds the copyright 
of the initial poem, to The Century, St. Nicholas, 
Lippincott's, The Critic, and The Churchman, are 
made grateful acknowledgments for courtesies. 

H. N. P. 

March, 1887. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGB 

Sub Luna n 

Chimney Swallows 13 

At School 15 

Optimus 16 

October Lilacs 18 

Apple-Blossoms 20 

Two Pictures by Hamerton 21 

A Maiden 24 

Delectatio Piscatoria 25 

The Hudson 28 

To Bayard Taylor ........ 30 

A Golden Wedding 31 

An Invitation 34 

Deukalion 36 

Concord Bridge 37 

A Priest 39 

A Sanctuary 41 

In the Orchard 42 

Fire-Flies 44 

Clematis 45 

Memorial Day— 1878 46 

7 



8 CONTENTS. 

The Voice of Pain, L, II 48 

The Phantoms of Love 53 

Iowa 54 

A Portrait 55 

The Tulip-Tree in Blossom 57 

Golden-Rod 59 

Pro Patria 60 

In the Mountains 62 

The Rev. Dr. Orville Dewey 63 

Jessie 64 

Burns 65 

Sweet Clover . 68 

Samuel Osgood 69 

The Catskills in October 71 

To C. E. P 72 

Liberty Enlightening the World ... 74 

The Burial of Grant 75 

At Confession 77 

The Color-Spirit 79 

Intimations 80 

Triumphant 81 

Could the Poems Felt and Sung .... 83 

The Anchorite in His Cell 84 

Cor Cordium 86 

IN THE CLOSET, AND OTHER POEMS. 

In the Closet 91 

Our Dwelling-Place 93 



CONTENTS. 9 

Last Christmas 94 

Transformed 95 

Christmas 97 

Hymn 99 

Semper Ubique loo 

Reassurance 102 

Easter 103 

EccLESiA 105 

EARLIER POEMS. 

One Year "3 

A Rosebud "5 

In the Lane 116 

Pewaukee iiS 

A Voice in the Desert 119 

The River of Tears 121 

You and I 122 

A Vision 123 

The Fisher-Boy 125 

To Bryant 127 

A Birthday Lyric 129 

Bryant 131 

The Old Chimney-Place 132 

Hymn of the Mothers of Our Volunteers . 134 

A Lesson from the Sky 137 

Our Sister ^3^ 

Bonnie ^9 

Ariss MO 



lO CONTENTS. 

To Robert Collyer 141 

A Sunset at Longmont, Colorado ... 142 

Our Boy 144 

The New Year 145 

To William F. Coolbaugh 146 

Memorial Day 147 

With Bryant at His Birthplace . . . .149 

The April Snow 152 

Sunday Evening 153 

The Angels' Bridge 154 

A Murmur of May 155 

Newness of Life 156 

"Abide with us: for it is toward evening" . 157 



POEMS. 



SUB LUNA. 

Suppose that we could read as in a book 

The moon's enchantments — all romantic lore 

Learned by the heart in her bewitching look — 
And every secret of her charm explore. 

What legends of sweet dreams would sate our eyes, 
And sumptuous pictures of untold desire ! 

What miracles of tenderness surprise, 
And hopes ablaze with pentecostal fire ! 

What pages writ in ecstasies and tears, 

And yearnings that have never had a tongue ! 

What loves, ambitions, lamentations, fears, 
What hymns of Beauty that are yet unsung ! 

Into what realms of wonder, what strange bowers, 
What palaces of pleasure would we go ! 

What music lull us, and what flowers 
Of unknown incense would about us blow ! 



12 ^UB LUNA. 

What seas of mystic splendor would we sail, 
Enchanted isles and fairy shores along, 

And muse in gardens where the nightingale 
Interprets the overloaded heart in song ! 

Even now I hear youth's passionate appeal, 
Pleadings of parched lips that thirst to meet. 

Great sobs of joy that years of anguish heal, 

And Love's first kiss that makes a life-time sweet. 

And beauteous beings follow shapes that fade, 

And white hands droop that sacred treasures bore. 

And some in ghastly landscapes grow afraid, 

And find the paths that once looked bright no more. 

O wistful faces ! rapt, uplifted eyes ! 

Poor feet bewildered with a tearless pain ! 
And still earth's long processions rise and rise, 

And dream their moonlight dream of bliss again. 

Tell me the charm, dear girl, this balmy eve, 
That makes the luscious languor of thy trance ; 

How do the moonbeams with thy fancies weave, 
And common things transfigure to romance ? 

No wonder infants, seeing things unseen. 

Reach rosy hands to clasp thee, shining sphere ; 

That pure-eyed maidens at their casements lean, 
And hear a voice that only virgins hear ; 



CHIMNE V S IVALLO IVS. 



13 



That something in thy lustre overflows 

From heaven, like echoes of a low-breathed prayer, 
And lover's lips cling closer, till life's rose 

With perfect sweetness blossoms everywhere. 

White on the valley slopes the splendor lies, 
Touching a holy mound where pansies blow ; 

And in my heart, from depths of viewless skies. 
Burns one soft beam that lights the way I go. 



CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. 

I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea ; 

And in their chimney nest. 
At night, the swallows told home-lore to me, 

As to a friendly guest. 

A liquid twitter low, confiding, glad, 

From many glossy throats, 
Was all the voice, and yet its accents had 

A poem's golden notes. 

Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, 

And sounds of festal cheer. 
And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er, 

Were breathed into mine ear. 



14 



CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. 



And wondrous lyrics felt, but never sung, — 

The heart's melodious bloom ; 
And histories whose perfumes long have clung 

About each hallowed room. 

I heard the dream of lovers as they found 

At last their hour of bliss. 
And fear and pain and long suspense were drowned 

In one heart-healing kiss. 

I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew 

To sons and daughters fair ; 
And childhood's angels, singing as they flew, 

And sobs of secret prayer. 

I heard the voyagers who seemed to sail 

Into the sapphire sky, 
And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, 

As the swift ships went by ; 

And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low 

About the suif'rer's bed, 
And what is uttered when the stricken know 

That the dear one is dead ; 

And steps of those who in the Sabbath light 

Muse with transfigured face ; 
And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, 

The pillow's empty place ; 



AT SCHOOL. 



15 



And gracious greetings of old friends whose path 

In youth had gone apart, 
But to each other brought life's aftermath, 

With uncorroded heart. 

The music of the seasons touched the strain, 

Bird-joy and laugh of flowers, 
The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain, 

Snow-storm and sunny showers ; 

And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns, 

And gropes in regions dim. 
Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns 

Its perfect life in Him. 

So, thinking of the Master and His tears, 

And how the birds are kept, 
I sank in arms that folded me from fears, 

And, like an infant, slept. 



AT SCHOOL. 

I HEAR the sigh of seeds that yearn 
To deck with pomp their burial urn. 
Ecstatic rhapsodies that run 
Along the bark that feels the sun. 
The laugh with which the buds unfold, 
The passion in the pollen's gold ; 
I hear the faint, delicious beat 
In hearts of roses, converse sweet 



OP TIM us. 

In airs that toy, at twilight's hour, 
With apple-bloom and orange-flower, 
The am'rous whispers of the grass 
As robins brood and fire-flies pass. 
The dews' desire, and griefs that make 
The thunder's fiery heart-strings break. 
To me are told the dreams that lie 
Deep in the lily's languid eye. 
Legends that ferns and corals store 
In books of rock and ocean's floor, 
The prayers that out of pastures cry 
When scorched beneath a brazen sky, 
Strange syllables that from the ground 
Speak like the naked soul of sound, 
And all the birds in love relate 
Of happy flight and tender mate. 
And what the tribes of insects tell 
Of their incessant miracle. 
Sea-song, and joy of human speech. 
And awful lore the star-depths teach ; 
And touching thus the inner Mind, 
I go enraptured, aw^ed, resigned. 



OP TIM US. 

Through all that is eternal order runs : 
No fragment is the scripture of the whole. 

Heaven over heaven, star-deeps, and countless suns 
Are tuned in concert with the inner soul. 



OP TIM us. 



17 



Seen and unseen in one perfection blend, — 
Cycle and epicycle without end. 

We see the edge of things, brief gleams of day. 
Twinkles and coruscations in the night ; 

We hear faint bits of symphonies that play 
Far in the awful depths beyond our sight : 

And so we doubt, grope, fear, and wonder why 

Our little life should just be born to die. 

And yet the Sovran Order still abides. 
Though phantoms of existence ever fade ; 

Though rise and vanish, on time's seething tides, 
Visions of joy in every charm arrayed. 

No discord in the Infinite can be — 

Calm in the fulness of eternity ! 

No loss, no death, no hostile conflict mars 
The inner Selfhood that is all in all. 

We are not bubbles, but immortal stars 
That from no shrivelled sky can ever fall. 

Lodged in the bosom of the perfect Good, 

Love gives us all that utter Justice should. 

All through the dark abysses, in the cells 
Discerned not yet by microscopic eye, 

The spirit of the Infinite compels 
The music of eternal harmony ; 

And every note, as if in one great word, 

Adores the Order, who is Life and Lord. 



1 3 OCTOBER LILACS. 

Not vain the hunger which no meats supply ; 

The struggle and the anguish are not vain, 
As shapes of Beauty still before us fly, 

And in our freest moods we drag a chain. 
The Power that gave shall ne'er His charge resign, 
In all our gropings 'tis for Him we pine. 

O Wisdom of the Highest ! let us find 

In Thee the place for which our souls aspire ; 

In Love's alembic, may our inmost mind 

Be fused with Thee, as quenchless fire with fire, — 

Our wishes, wills, affections, all be Thine, 

And so life reach its end and be divine. 
1886. 



OCTOBER LILACS. 

Could she who gave the flowers 

Know what sacred lore was taught me 
In the delicate fresh lilacs 

That rare October night ? 
Gliding from her garden bowers. 

Did she fancy that she brought me 
A trail of perfumed heart-tracks 

All aglow with vernal light .'' 

They were pure, sweet, pleading, tender, 
Like her own fresh maiden beautv : 



I 



OCTOBER LILACS. iq 

Enough that they were simply so 

To her whose life is May. 
But to me they had strange splendor ; 

I saw the spoils of duty, 
The heart's unsmothered glow, 

The child-smile framed in gray. 

'Tis my creed that Kgt. should carry, 

'Mid its strifes and cares and losses, 
The purple of its morning, 

April-bloom and choral air ; 
That Wisdom, Cheer should marry, 

That life ascends on crosses, 
And that its best adorning 

Is its joy in all things fair. 

With these lilacs in October — 

Falling leaf and russet stubble. 
And the landscape growing drear — 

True, I know the faith I cherish : 
There is heat in what is sober, 

A balsam flows with trouble, 
Pristine pleasures reappear, 

Naught beautiful can perish. 

Dear girl, when comes your Autumn, 

May the lilacs freshly blowing, 
Keep your days as sweet as those 

That breathe upon your Spring. 



20 



APPLE-BL OSSOMS. 



The pure heart shall be blithesome, 
To the new the old is growing ; 

Life its full perfection knows 
When Love is lord and king. 
October 28, 1878. 



A PPLE-BL OSSOMS. 

The apple-trees with bloom are all aglow — 

Soft drifts of perfumed light — 
A miracle of mingled fire and snov/ — 

A laugh of Spring's delight ! 

Their ranks of creamy splendor pillow deep 

The valley's pure repose ; 
On mossy walls, in meadow nooks they heap 

Surges of frosted rose. 

Around old homesteads, clustering thick, they shed 

Their sweets to murm'ring bees, 
And o'er hushed lanes and wayside fountains spread 

Their pictured canopies. 

Green-breasted knolls and forest edges wear 

Their beautiful array : 
And lonesome graves are sheltered, here and there. 

With their memorial spray. 



TIVO PICTURES BY HAMERTOX. 2 1 

The efflorescence on unnumbered boughs 

Pants with delicious breath ; 
O'er me seem laughing eyes and fair, smooth brows, 

And shapes too sweet for death. 

Clusters of dimpled faces float between 

The soft caressing plumes, 
And lovely creatures 'mong the branches lean, 

Lulled by faint, flower-born tunes. 

A rude wind blows, and as the blossoms fall. 

My heart is borne away ; 
Fainter and fainter tender voices call 

Of my enamoured May. 

Fainter and fainter — oh, how strange it seems, 

With so much sweetness fled ! 
I go like one who dreams within his dreams 

That, living, he is dead ! 



TWO PICTURES BY HAMERTON* 
I. 
A duck's paradise. 
This rustic nook of sweet confiding charm 
A portal is to Nature's vaster shrine. 
A pool, a copse, a cottage half embowered, 
A broken cart, a flock of water-fowl, 

* Presented by the artist to the author. 



22 



TWO PICTURES BY HA ME R TON. 



A bit of meadow and a melting cloud, 

Glimpses of yellow harvests, far pale hills, 

And over all the soul of a blue sky. 

You gaze, and something wins you more and more- 

Something that, out of Nature's living heart, 

Her truth, and freshness, and her mystic power. 

Enters the subtlest fibre of your sense 

With gladness and with healing and with calm. 

Is it the lisping of ten thousand tongues 

In this bright grove ? — the poetry that flows 

In all the tree-tops ? Is it what the pool, 

With fowl, and water-flags, and summer sky, 

Tells as its ripples feel along the marge 

With pure soft hands and lips that sweetly breathe 

The idyl of the sunshine and the shade ? 

Is it the golden bounty of the mead 

Whose velvet kings might envy, or the gleam 

Of harvests and the blue Burgundian range ? 

Is it the dream that haunts this ancient lodge 

Caressed with leafy kisses all day long? 

Or the free boundless spirit of the air, 

Effulgent with an infinite delight ? 

I cannot tell, for all together make 

One glorious revelation. Yet I know 

That as the whole is good, each part of all 

Combines to show the gracious miracle 

Of Nature. And, so cheerful, brisk and strong. 

So dowered with fresh and tender sympathy, 

It seems as if a human heart held here 

Its healthy joy, its great and deep content, 



Tiro PICTURES BY HAMERTON. 23 

And, in the fulness of its blessing, poured 
Music, and praise, and gratitude to God. 



II. 

STORKS AT A STREAM. 

Beneath these lusty trees the sylvan stream 
Is rich with colored shade, and round the curve 
Flows slowly to the solemn harmonies 
Of the old forest's haunted solitude. 
Across, the tangle opens to the sun, 
And, on beyond, a virgin meadow glows, 
Immaculate with sheen of verdant hre — 
Fit field for fairies and their sportive pranks 
When eve is soft with moonshine and the dew. 
Down through the splendid vista come the storks 
Great kingly birds endeared to human kind. 
They know their place of banquet, as the stream 
Knows its wild course. Already one alight 
Stands proudly in the mirror of the cove — 
A living statue in the gorgeous wave. 
Another, where the pebbly bank slopes down, 
On unfurled pinions pauses. In mid-air 
A third advances, terrorless and strong, 
To join his fellows in their woodland bower. 
Rest is pavilioned in this charmed retreat. 
The secret of the solitude is told 
In all this wonder of the earth and sky. 
Tranquillity herself is here unclothed — 
A perfect peace that sweetens everything. 



24 



A MAIDEN. 



The clouds, great floating blossoms of the air, 
Lounge in their beds of beauty ; and old trees 
That love the summer, shrubs and mingled boughs, 
All the infinite leafage, are alive, 
With radiant things begotten where the sun 
Makes nests of light and flashes feathery gold. 
And out of Heaven, far through the solemn wood, 
A sweet and holy benediction falls. 



A MAIDEN. 
Vain are the common metaphors of song 

To paint this lovely one ; 
All language does her wrong 

In which the praise of other maids is sung. 

The misty tenderness of Spring, 

A young dove with its lifted wing, 

A lily ere its dew is shed, 

Snow-drops with roses overhead, 

Fair coral blooming in a purple sea, 

Pure pearls and soft-carved ivor}% 

A gliding fawn in jasmine shade, 

A May-flower smiling half afraid, 

An airy cloudlet's fleecy tress. 

Tinged with the new moon's chaste caress, 

Faint odors of pale mignonette 

With Twilight's languid kisses wet, 

The Dawn's first blushes, and the look 

That gleams within a mountain brook — 



DELECTATIO PISCATORIA. 25 

All hint of her, but none express 
Her nature's perfect loveliness — 
Her purity of look and tone, 
The light of love about her thrown, 
Her delicate and winsome grace, 
The chiseled clearness of her face, 
The sweet repose in which she lives, 
Unconscious of the joy she gives ; 
Of all that's finest, naught but her 
Can be her clear interpreter. 
Her beauty is a spirit true 
To all that is divine in you ; 
A sight of her is a new sense 
To one in love with innocence. 



DELECTATIO PISCATORIA. 

THE UPPER KENNEBEC. 

From the great mere set round with sun-bright 
mountains 

Full born the river leaps. 
Dashing the crystal of a thousand fountains 

Down its romantic steeps. 

'Tis now a torrent whose untamed endeavor 

Is eager for the sea. 
Angry that rock or reef should hinder ever 

Its frantic liberty. 



26 DELECTATIO P ISC A TORI A. 

Then, for a space, a lake and river blended, 

It sleeps with tranquil breast, 
As if its haste and rage at last were ended, 

And all it sought was rest. 

In spicy wood-paths by the rapids straying, 

I hear, with lingering feet. 
Its liquid organ and the tree-tops playing 

Te Deums strangely sweet. 

I break the covert : pictured far emerges 

On the enraptured sight 
The arrowy flow, green isles, a cascade's surges, 

Foam-flaked in rosy light. 

Still pools, and purples of the sleepy sedges, 

The skyward forest wall, 
Old sorrowing pines and hazy mountain ledges, 

And soft blue over all. 

O golden hours of summer's precious leisure ! 

From care and toil apart, 
Fresh drawn, I taste the angler's gentle pleasure 

With friend of equal heart. 

Trout leap and glitter, and the wild duck flutters 

Where beds of lilies blow ; 
A loon his long, weird lamentation utters, 

And Echo feels his woe. 



DELECTATIO PISCATORIA. 27 

We see in hemlock shade, the reedy shallow, 

Where, screened by dusky leaves, 
The guileless moose comes down to browse and 
wallow 

On still balsamic eves. 

The great blue heron starts as if we sought 
her. 

On pinions of surprise. 
And to our lure the darlings of the water 

In pink and crimson rise. 

Still gliding on, how throng the sweet romances 

Of youth's enchanted land ! 
A lordly eagle, as our bark advances, 

Glares on us, sad and grand. 

Onward we float where mellow sunset glory 

Streams o'er the lakelet's breast, 
And every ripple tells a golden story 

Of the transfigured west. 

Onward, into the evening's calm and beauty, 

To camp and sleep we go : 
Thrice bless'd are lives, in tasks of love and 
duty. 

That end in such a glow ! 



28 THE HUDSON. 



THE HUDSON, 

O THE eyes that glowed bright in the spell of thy 
beauty, 
When summers were sweetest in Hope's luscious 
clime ! 
O the hearts that, on errands of honor and duty, 
Were braced by thy grandeurs, O, river sublime ! 

O the loves and the dreams that were born where 
thy glories 
In sunset and moonlight their witchery wore, 
While the warm lips of youth breathed the tenderest 
stories 
Into ears that slill listened in rapture for more ! 

O the worn, and the weary, who, coming and go. 
ing. 
Have watched thy repose through the mist of their 
tears ! 

the gallant and wise who, with garlands still grow- 

ling, 
Will hallow thy banks till the earth disappears ! 

1 think of the anguish, now ended and over, 

Of lonely ones journeying here with their dead ; 
Of patriot, scholar, and traitor, and lover, 

And poems in hearts that have never been read. 



THE HUDSOy. 



29 



I think, as I picture the mighty procession 

Of beauty, and genius, of greatness and fame, 

That here passed, up and down, with a ceaseless 
progression. 
How empty the honors of station and name! 

I summon the faces, the numberless faces 

That were turned to thee fondly, as onward they 
sped 
To their labors, their pleasures, their fireside places, 
And am dazed by the manifold meanings they 
shed. 

How the air seems to vibrate with sorrow and 
laughter, 
The hopes and the gladness, the griefs and des- 
pair 
Of those who have failed, and those who flee after 
The phantom of Joy that they dream is so fair. 

O beauty that glowed in the rose of our morning ! 

the promise that shone when our pathway was 

new ! 

blossom of love, our high noontide adorning, 
What a splendor o'er all this fair region ye threw ! 

1 thrill with the vision, with the stress of emotion, 
As the swarm of the pageants, O Hudson, appear ; 

And yet, as a child dips his cup in the ocean, 

1 receive but a sip of the glory that's here. 



30 



TO BAYARD TAYLOR, 



TO BAYARD TAYLOR. 

ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR GERMANY. 

Heir of the Bard's immortal line, 
God speed thy passage o'er the sea ! 

Two mighty realms thy laurels twine ; 
Farewell and welcome kiss for thee ! 

The winds that waft thee from the West 
Are charged with all that Nature breathes 

To him who knows her secrets best, 
And richly gives as he receives. 

In joy of thee the eager spring 

Kindles with earlier warmth, and sends 

On tinted air and perfumed wing 
The choicest blessing of thy friends. 

And all are friends of thine that stirred 
The pulses of thy youth to song — 

Green field, and wood, and brook, and bird, 
And blooms that round the seasons throng ; 

The sacred landscape where thy years 
Took their calm strength and royal hue, 

The stars that saw thy toils and tears. 
The hearth where love and honor grew ; 



A GOLDEN WEDDING. 

And marvels of the ancient climes, 

The scholar's scroll, the prophet's heart. 

The ages' sad, majestic rhymes 

Writ in the wondrous shapes of art. 

And lands and peoples send acclaim : 
*' Behold his manhood's grace and power, 

His wisdom, valor, spotless fame, 

A nation's pride ! the Muse's flower ! " 

And we, who know thy voice and hand 
Where all thy household virtues shine, 

Have seen thy rose of life expand. 

And quaffed thy friendship's precious wine, — 

We love thee ever. Go or come, 

Fresh bays shall crown thee, hence and here. 
In every land thou hast a home, 

And kingly natures call thee peer. 
April, 1878. 

A GOLDEN WEDDING. 

To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas McElrath, Feb. 9, 1882. 

Who come with garlands white and festal lay 
This Golden Wedding day 
To greet the happy pair — 
Never so dear before. 
Never so dear or fair t 



31 



32 A GOLDEN IVEDDIiYG. 

Not we alone ; — our trembling lips are weak 

To breathe the blessings that we fain would speak - 

But shining throngs whom vanished years restore ; 

These gratulations pour. 
What eager brows ! what gracious speech ! 
What thrilling pressure of the hands they reach ! 
They bring the benedictions of old friends 

We meet no more, 

And salutations sweet 

From bowery lane and busy street, 
And cosey nooks within the fireside glow. 
The fruitfulness of loving deeds they show ; — 
How gentle household graces grow ; 
How self-devotion serves with single eye ; 
How far the deeds of simple kindness fly : 

And so the wreaths they bring, 

And so the strains tliey sing, 

Enrich our feeble offering, 

As stars enrich the sky. 

II. 
What do they leave and what retain, 

Bridegroom and bride, as on they go 
Into the sunset's golden glow t 
They leave of earthiness the stain, 
They leave care's long, corroding chain. 
Their weary vigils, and the road 
Where sorrov/ staggered with its load ; — 
All this they leave, but fondly keep 
Their household feelings warm and deep, 



A GOLDEN WEDDING. 

The love that ripened through the stress 
Of toil, and trust, and watchfulness. 
And the child-heart whose simple sense 
Is life's bright shield and recompense. 

III. 

What is our bride's and bridegroom's dower ? 
What but the spirit's golden flower ? 
Ah ! picture all that makes their way- 
Grow brighter towards the perfect day, 
And consecrates sweet human life 
In noble husband, blameless wife, 
And I will celebrate the gain 
That crowns to-night this happy twain — 
Untarnished honor, virtues tried, 
In loss and suff'ring sanctified. 
Wisdom that learns in love its lore. 
And love by giving growing more. 
And peace, white blossom of the breast, 
Where Christ, the Master, is the guest. 

IV. 

And what their vision now while fold 

The curtains of their honored age 
About their lengthened pilgrimage ? 

See ! what a light of mellow gold 

Is on their faces, as they turn 

Where sunset's splendid roses burn : 

It touches all they love, and lies 

On grateful souls and happy eyes. 



33 



34 



AN INVITATION. 



What golden stairs slant through the glow ! 
What dear ones smile above, below ! 
What greetings heard ! responses given ! 
Till earth seems but a step from heaven. 



AN INVITATION. 

TO THE REV. DR. S. OSGOOD. 

In delicate, coy ways, 
A spirit has been busy wooing forth 
Beauty and sweetness in the air and earth, 

All through these vernal days. 

The birds came long ago. 
And tender grasses early sought the sun ; 
Life through the pulses of the trees did run 

With warm, prolific glow, 

Till every bud unsheathed, 
And all the orchards burst to snowy bloom, 
And woods grew pink and yellow in the noon — 

Misty and silken-leaved ! 

O scholar, wise and strong. 
Haste where thy work is play each summer-tide. 
Waldstein is fresh with beauty like a bride 

That waits the festal thronsf. 



AiV INVITATION. 



The gold of morning showers 



35 



On lawn, and copse, and nooks of mantling 

vine ; 
And odors brewed in May-flowers' subtle wine 
Embalm the evenins: hours. 



'& 



The philosophic shade, 
Sacred to sages whom all times revere; 
Like Academus unprofaned and dear. 

For thee is well arrayed. 

The Muses' hill invites — 
Where Shakespeare's, Dante's, Milton's, Byrant's 

spell 
Proclaims the grace of Nature's miracle — 
With Song's refined delights. 

About the sylvan shrine 
Aerial hymns and viewless pinions float ; 
Love is the theme of every grateful note — 

Creative Love Divine. 



Come, Osgood, for thy speech 
Shall with the season sweetly harmonize. 
Thought with thy thought shall see with clearer 
eyes. 

And nobler landscapes reach. 
May 17, 1878. 



36 



DEUKALION. 
DEUKALION. * 

[Read at a Memorial Meeting of the Goethe Club, Niw York.] 

At my low hearth, one year ago, 

He sat and read with face aglow, 

And voice whose unaffected art 

Interpreted the minstrel's heart, 

A scroll, and myriad ages told 

Man's upward struggles manifold, 

Till his consummate life was won. 

He ceased : I knew Deukalion ! 

And to myself with reverence said, 

" To noble bards his fame is wed, 

He has the soul to understand 

The mystic faiths of every land. 

Through him the seas and mountains tell 

Their everlasting miracle. 

He knows what seers and sages seek ; 

The lover's kiss is on his cheek ; 

To him the pure-eyed saints confess. 

And nature bares her loveliness ; 

And choruses of all the years — 

Their hopes and conquests, raptures, tears, 

In him their lofty measures pour. 

That he may make their music more." 

And then I thought, " How passing sweet 

Will seasons come and seasons fleet, 

* This is the title of a remarkable Lyrical Drama by Bay- 
ard Taylor — his latest important production. The first copy 
from the press was put into his hands just before he died. 



CONCORD BRIDGE. 

As higher still in Friendship's land 
I hear his voice and touch his hand." 

Death smote him, but he cannot kill 
The joy his soulful songs distil. 
The sweetness of his love abides 
In lives uplifted by its tides. 
In homes and halls and courts he stands, 
With gifts of beauty in his hands. 
Each shrine of Truth and sacred place 
Glow with the fervor of his face ; 
And where a creature claims his own 
Speaks for mankind Deukalion. 



CONCORD BRIDGE. 

I GO where the pines of the lane 

Sing low to the beautiful stream, 
With an awe like the throbbing of pain, 

With a wonder like one in a dream. 
The scent of the meadows is sweet, 

The landscape in dewy calm lies. 
Holy ground is under my feet, 

And holy the light to my eyes. 

How still is the bridge in the sun. 
With the fairy reflections below ; 

How softly the cool waters run 

Where the beds of the pond-lilies blow 



37 



38 



CONCORD BRIDGE. 



The splendid white hlies that lie 
Subtle-scented in passionless rest, 

With bosoms of gold to the sky, 

Like saints in the peace of the blest. 

Musing on in the musical shade. 

My heart like a dove drifts away : 
What now ? — gleaming banner and blade — 

Am I caught in the thick of the fray ? 
Faces set, musket flash, smoke and din. 

Whizzing shot, and the drum's pleading beat. 
Then huzzas from the yeomen who win, 

And curses from ranks that retreat. 

There is blood on the grass, and the stain 

Of the river is red by the shore ; 
I count not of battle the slain. 

For a nation is born in its roar. 
How hot grows its heart in the word 

Of Freedom's prophetic command, 
Hov/ terribly swift leaps the sword 

To defend the rights of the land ! 

I see through the wearisome years 
The patience. of faith unto death; 

'Mid the gloom of disaster and tears 

Floats the flag on a pra3-er-laden breath : 

Stern and grim is the courage that's born 
As the blood of the martyrs is sown : 



A PRIEST. 29 

Self-devotion, defiant with scorn, 

Meets the wiles and the threats of a throne. 



Oh! the strife where the timid grow brave, 

And the hands of the feeble grow strong, 
In a passion to succor and save, 

In a hatred of king-cradled wrong. 
I yearn with the heroes who bear 

In their trust the high hopes of a world. 
And pant in their triumph to share, 

When to dust the oppressor is hurled. 

Lo, the thunders ! — they suddenly cease ; 

The battle-clouds scatter and flee : 
Shine on, sacred sunshine of peace ! 

Lift your heads, O ye gates of the free ! 
The scent of the meadows is sweet. 

And pleasant is summer's soft beam, 
Koly ground is under my feet, 

And the lilies are white on the stream. 



A PRIEST. 

He led me to the depths of solemn woods. 
To lonely mere, and herbless mountain-top, 
And where weird chasms of the cloven hills 
Moan with the torrent's thunder ; led me on 



40 



A PRIEST. 



To shrines where all was worship in the spell 

Of music and of silence and of prayer. 

He led me, and I followed, till I felt 

The heart of nature passing into mine — 

The meanings of the flowers and winds and songs 

On moonlit shores and tracts of summer land — 

Of bird and beast and insect, and the growths 

Of rock and herbage, and the forms of men ; 

And veils were lifted, messages were blown, 

A glory passed through all that makes the worlds, 

A spirit moved that moves forevermore. 

I followed still, and saw the ages roll, 

And man's great travail ; reached with reverent 

breath. 
The holy seats where human life is fed 
With power and purpose to endure and do 
Its mightiest ; knew what the Seer saw, 
The Hero felt, what made the Martyr calm 
In torturing fire, the greatness that abides 
In royal lives that fear no hurt but sin. 
I had the clew to tasks that rid the world 
Of bondage, lust, and ignorance, and wrong ; 
Learned how to use misfortunes, how to turn 
One's gall and tears to wholesome medicine, 
And how to cull imperishable flowers, 
And sip the honey which is meat indeed, 
'Mong poisons, thorns, and reptiles of the world. 
Ah, what that clears the soul and makes it strong 
Did he not give ? — priest of the hungry heart 
That asks so much in doubt and fear and pain. 



A SANCTUARY. 



41 



His voice revived, his sympathy restored ; 

The splendors that no eye but Faith's discerns, 

The deathless beauty that lures on and on 

To seek the perfect life that is beloved, 

And all that trembles on the lip of prayer, 

And all that out of trial prophesies 

Of God's great day to wronged and suffering men, 

He made me know upon my bended knees. 

From him I learned the secret things of peace. 

And wisdom's gentle lowlihood, and saw, 

With shriven spirit. Goodness first and last, 

Saw the great Order that inheres in all 

And all embraces, and man's high estate 

When evil dies, and everlasting Love 

To him is law, and vision, and pure joy. 



A SANCTUARY. 

It was a valley gentle as a dream, 

Cool with tree shadows, dewy, fragrant, sweet, 
Where ran, through bowery ways, a mountain 
stream — 

The troutlet's Eden and the fawn's retreat. 

Round black-gnarled roots that heaved the moistened 
ground, 

By leafy mounds, and banks of odorous grass, 
And in deep channels, out of sight, slow wound 

The brook — a murmur — then a braid of glass. 



42 



IN THE ORCHARD. 



Huge rocks whose frown was smothered in soft bloom 
Like altars rose ; faint as an infant's sigh 

A lone dove cooed ; and through the sylvan gloom 
Swam now and then a splendid butterfly. 

The very stillness worshipped, and I heard 
The untold secret of the heart of prayer ; 

The life that pulsed in all required no word 
To voice the spirit of devotion there. 

Upon me fell the Sanctuary's peace ; 

I met the soul of Beauty face to face ; 
My heart was in the hymn that did not cease 

To fill with tranquil joy the holy place. 

I sought no more. Within the veil I stood, 
And Nature's tenderest benison was mine, 

I heard all speech proclaim the perfect Good, 
And felt that simple living was divine. 



IN THE ORCHARD. 

Mellow lies the sunshine on the orchard slopes and 
meadows. 
On nooks of purple asters and the tints of leafy 
hills. 
The soft, warm haze is tender with a palpitating 
splendor, 
And a fresh delicious odor all the dozing valley 
fills. 



IN THE ORCHARD. 



43 



Colors like a prairie in the glory of its blossoms 
Gleam amid the grasses where the luscious fruit- 
age lies, 
And in their cosey places on the boughs with tempt- 
ing faces, 
Peep and nestle myriad apples like birds of many 
dyes. 

Golden, green, and russet, and warm with scarlet 
blushes, 
Basking in the silent noon upon their perches 
'mong the leaves — 
How they glow like royal roses where the loving sun 
reposes. 
How they fall from their own fatness on the crisp 
autumnal eves. 

O apples, fragrant apples, piled high beside the 
presses. 
And heaped in wain and basket 'neath the broad- 
branched, mossy trees, 
Can we fairly call him sober — the splendid, rich 
October — 
Pouring out his sweets and beauty in such lavish 
gifts as these ? 

Children frolicking and feasting on the ripeness to 
the core — 
Monarchs of the orchard kingdom, with every tree 
a throne — 



44 



FIRE-FLIES. 



What are spring days for your praises, or wood-paths, 
or the daisies, 
To these provinces of sweetness which, by right 
of love, ye own ? 

Sadly may the aged ponder life's decays and changes. 
But youth sees no dark omen as the mellow ap- 
ples fall. 
O children, keep your gladness ; may you have no 
more of sadness. 
Than while, romping in the orchards, you are 
kings and queens of all. 



FIRE-FLIES. 

On the warm and perfumed dark 
Glows the fire-fly's tender spark. 
Copse, and dell, and lonesome plain 
Catch the drops of lambent rain. 
Scattered swarms are snarled among 
Boughs where thrushes brood their young. 
Little cups of daisies hold 
Tapers that illume their gold. 
See ! they light their floating lamps 
Where the katydid encamps. 
Glint the ripples soft and cool 
On the grassy-cinctured pool. 
Poise where blood-red roses burn. 
And rills creep under drooping fern, 



CLE MA TIS. 45 

Weave inconstant spangles through 
Vines that drip with fragrant dew, 
And 'mid clumps of dusky pine 
In the mournful silence shine. 
They cling to tufts of the morass ; 
The meadow lilies feel them pass ; 
They deck the turf about the feet 
Of lovers hid in shadows sweet, 
And round the musing poet gleam 
Like scintillations of his dream. 

O winged spark ! effulgent mite ! 
Live atom of the Infinite ! 
Thou doest what for thee is done — 
In thy place faithful as the sun. 
Love's highest law compels thy heart ; 
All that thou hast thou dost impart ; 
Thy life is lighted at its core — 
Sages and saints achieve no more. 



CLEMATIS. 

It was meet that beauty should greet her 
In sweets of the pure " Virgin's Bower ; " 

But fairer, and fresher, and sweeter. 
Was she of all flowers the Flower. 

Where she moved the wood seemed enchanted ; 
The Clematis over her fluns: 



46 MEMORIAL DAY—187S. 

Its fragrant pavilion, still haunted 
With music the thrushes had sung. 

Its arbors swung open before her 

With garlands and banners of bloom; 

It crept on the ground to adore her, 
It poured out its praise in perfume. 

To the ledges it clung with sweet fingers, 

Alert for a sight of her face. 
Swaying low, where the ferny brook lingers, 

It mimicked her exquisite grace. 

The woodland was lit with its splendor, 
Yet she was its Vestal of light ; 

All the whiteness about could not lend her 
A ray to her spirit of white. 



MEMORIAL DAY—iZ-jZ. 

Crowns for our heroes living and the dead ! 

Crowns brightest of the anadems of May. 
Scatter the flowers ! Let loving words be said ! 

A nation bows by sacred graves to-day. 

Thanks for sweet Peace by dauntless valor won, 
For patriot love that sacrificed its best ; 

Thanks for the fairest realm beneath the sun. 

Which holds no slave, and makes mankind its guest. 



MEMORIAL DAY— 1878. ^j 

True Hearts ! that beat to Freedom's lofty strain, 
Honor's pure impulse woke your battle-cry. 

No loss ye counted in your country's gain ; 
In man's great cause 'twas beautiful to die. 

Into the fiery cloud and in the sea 

Of blood and tears, with fearless eyes ye went ; 
Out of the surges rose the Union free ! 

A Nation's life becomes your monument ! 

Crowns for our heroes ! Read the deathless scroll, 
Whose names are set with stars in heaven's own 
blue, 

And, as unfolds the long and shining roll. 

What pictures rise that speak our martyrs' due ! 

Baptized in such a deluge of distress, 

Redeemed by breaking hearts and myriads slain, 
What symbol shall our heritage express ? 

Or tell what duty bids us to maintain 1 

Sum all the rights won through affliction's fire, 
The civic treasures of all times and lands, 

Hopes that are sweetest of mankind's desire, 
Then see the trust committed to our hands ! 

And shall we fail to whom this trust is lent ? 

Lo ! clouds arise ; foes burrow under ground. 
The air is raw with muttered discontent, 

Afar are rumblings like an army's sound. 



48 THE VOICE OF PAIN. 

If we prove recreant, where is hope for man ? 

The ages out of awful travail cry, 
" Be true ! O people marching in the van ! 

On you is fixed the world's appealing eye. 

" Heed Wisdom's counsel ; rend each wicked snare ; 

Catch the keen ardor of heroic days ; 
See what men free indeed should do and dare, 

Till every heart with patriot purpose blaze. 

" Live by the faith that conquers and endures — 
Life that in love and justice draws its breath ; 

Trust God, who makes the high example yours. 
And the Republic shall not taste of death." 



THE VOICE OF PAIN. 
I. 

Who has not shuddered at the Voice of Pain t 

Glib with a world's distress, its hateful tongue 

Is heard in every language, and it tells 

The secret of immedicable ills, 

And sorrows borne when tears relieve no more. 

How cries the voice in hut and holy place. 

In dens where Guilt abides, and lonesome homes 

Lying among the shadows of the hills. 

The whole earth grieves. Bleak lane, and storied 

Hall, 
And languid bowers where Innocence is snared, 



THE VOICE OF PAIN. 



49 



Breathe horrid tales, and lamentations rise 
Amid the paeans of victorious fields, 
And where Plague slays the remnant Famine spared. 
In barques aflame amid the cruel seas. 
In ghastly mines, in crashing cars that reel 
To watery gulfs, where cyclones brush away 
Hamlet and harvest, and earth yawns, and hurls 
On pallid crowds their fast dissolving homes, 
And conflagr-ation quaffs with lips of fire 
Imperial towns and licks the ashen hills, 
The Voice wails on. Its deep, incessant moan, 
Unheeded, inarticulate, forlorn. 
Pleads in uncounted creatures free of wrong. 
Jungle and desert, fruits of luscious breath, 
Fringes of tender flowers, and hoary woods, 
Have their own tragedies ; and streams that sing 
'Mong meads and mountains, ocean's soundless floor, 
The prairie's bloomy waste, and trackless strands 
Prolong Pain's weary, melancholy strain. 
List what it tells of watching, torment, fear. 
And prayer made dumb by overmuch desire. 
Rage, envy, madness, and a still despair. 
O, how it cries — that unrecorded Voice — 
From lonely couch, and violated hearth, 
From bloody scaft'olds, and demolished thrones, 
In rack, and stake, and infamies of wrong. 
And awful nightmare of the soul, whose dream 
Is shame, and darkness, and the Second Death. 
I hear it as hands clutch at phantom shapes 
In fever's frenzy, as, with clenched teeth, 



50 THE VOICE OF PAIN. 

Men writhe and stare on faces that are dear, 
And little children all night long moan on, 
Starved and forsaken ; where, to see once more 
A bit of tender sky, the prisoner crawls 
On fleshless limbs across his clammy cell 
And gasps his last ; and blinded devotees 
Die while they live, and genius is impaled. 
And mothers perish as their babes are born, 
And maidens wish they never had been born. 
And hopeless Love feels round in empty air. 

And, as I listen, shapes of shadowy mien 
Recite the horrors of primeval years — 
Annals of all the anguish of the race 
In its long birth-pang unto higher things. 
Weird landscapes of the elder world appear — 
Ambush, and forest-lodge, and rocky lair — 
And gaunt and supple forms that hide and spring, 
Monsters that crouch, and crunch their savage prey, 
And stealthy bands, cat-like, and fierce, and strong, ■ 

Gliding upon their unprotected foes, | 

And writhing limbs, and faces agonized. 
And hideous rites amid sepulchral vales 
By midnight fires, and at the moon's eclipse. 
And the great Voice that bears the ancient woe 
Mingles with that which daily prophesies. 

II. 

O sleepless Warder at the gate of life ! 
Prophet of human needs 'mid ruthless woes ! 
Avenger of transgression ! Earth-born Pain ! 



y 



THE VOICE OF PAIN. 

Harsh is thy voice and dreadful, as it tells 
The anguish of a world, but thou dost teach 
Redemption, and deliverance, and the path 
To glorious triumphs as thy scourges fall. 
Thou dost rebuke the profligate, thy tones 
Frighten from guilty pleasure, and subdue 
The stony-hearted. Startled mid their ease, 
Hearts look within and find their secret sin. 
Thou smitest, and old errors slink away. 
And truth is honored, and great deeds are done 
That make the ages worthy of their fame. 

It is the lore of suffering that inspires 

The gracious tasks that renovate the world. 

Probed are the causes of calamity — 

Disease and serfdom, ignorance and crime. 

Through purging fires are evils burned away, 

And virtue ripened, and the good revealed. 

Sorrow provokes the ministries of love. 

And, in the gentle touch and soothing word. 

Spring hopes, and fortitude, and high resolves. 

The frail are sheltered, innocence revered, 

And temples rise of holy charity : 

Friends find the friendless ; into squalid homes 

Go angels of a sweet benevolence ; 

The instruments of torture are consumed. 

Old wrongs are slain and brutal enmities, 

And Nature's secrets made to serve mankind. 

Through Pain the race sloughs off its savage garb, 

And its majestic triumphs tell how vast 



51 



52 



THE VOICE OF PAIN. 



And sore its sorrows. Its appealing cry 

Pierces kings' closets, ancient senate halls, 

The seats of justice, and the despot's lair. 

And fetters fall apart, and life expands, 

And chartered rights assure the weak their own. 

Pain built the engines whose benignant play 

Quickens the world, taught arts and brotherhood, 

Led forth the fecund colonies, whence sprung 

Cities and proud republics, found the road 

On which the great procession of mankind 

Marches to knowledge, virtue, liberty. 

So homes are glad with fruits of happy toil, 

And wisdom sits on thrones, and laws are good. 

And shines the promise of the Golden Year. 

That sweetness of compassion sprang from Pain, 

That greatness of the spirit which endures 

The crush of many burdens and contrives 

The blessed medications of the world. 

Ah, mystic power ! how strange the alchemy 

That, out of life's most bitter chalices. 

Transmutes elixirs that exalt, and heal. 

And stimulate a holy thirst for heaven. 

No more art thou dread prompter of despair, 

Chastiser, fiend whose awful face appalls, 

But friend, instructor, mediator thou. 

Thy cross, in perfect sacrifice, lit up 

The path to God, and shows the godlike life. 

I hear thy voice, O Pain, and look afar 

To realms of light where perfect love is King. 

The morning of eternity has come. 

And Pain and tears are all forgotten now. 



THE PHANTOMS OF LOVE. 53 



THE PHANTOMS OF LOVE. 

" Every feeling o£ love gives birth involuntarily to an invisible or spirit 
which yearns to complete its existence." — Aniiel, from The Talmud. 

O Phantom offspring, love-born in the spirit, 
Unborn to sense, and wandering spirit-bound 

In the soul's limbo, yearning to inherit 

The substance of the being we have found, 

Do ye not ofttimes visit us, and hover 
About our pillows, pensive, uncaressed ? 

And do we never, waking, just discover 
The fading features of our shadowy guest ? 

In mellow moonlight and by hearth-fires waning. 
While tender thoughts our truest selves restore, 

Do our hearts never reach, with eager straining. 
For something gone, but lovely evermore ? 

And out of darkness, when the seas are breaking, 
Hear we no plaintive cries, through wind and wave, 

As if we were ungraciously forsaking 

The helpless kindred that we ought to save ? 

Ah, what are these who, for an instant smiling. 
Melt into air and leave the heart so sore. 

While we but catch a breath of their beguiling — 
A fragrant breath, a glimpse, and nothing more ? 



54 



IOWA. 



O love ! that gave these apparitions being, 
Of their caresses must ye ever fail ? 

Pining, and yearning, and but dimly seeing 
What does the ano:uish of desire avail ? 



"43* 



( 



Born and unborn, unreal, and yet revealing, 

Aroma of affection never fed. 
Soothing, disturbing, tenderly appealing — 

Ye keep alive the soul's immortal dead ! 



IOWA. 

Midland, where mighty torrents run. 

Of placid brow and modest mien. 
With glowing bosom to the sun. 

Sits the majestic Prairie Queen. 
Imperial rivers kiss her feet. 

The free winds through her tresses blow. 
Her breath with unsown flowers is sweet. 

Her cheeks are flushed with Morning's glow. 

Grand in her beauty, what cares she 

For jewelled cliffs, and rills of gold, 
For seats along the sounding sea. 

Or storied monuments of old? 
Her hands are strong, her fame secure. 

Her praise on lips whose praise is dear, 
Her heart and hope and purpose pure, 

And God in all her landscapes near. 



A PORTIA A IT. 

Aye, splendid in her ample lap 

Are annual harvests heaped sublime : 
Earth bears not on her proudest map 

A fatter soil, a fairer clime. 
How sing her billowy seas of grain ! 

How laugh her fruits on vine and tree ! 
How glad her homes, in Plenty's reign, 

Where Love is Lord and Worship free ! 

Land of the generous heart and brave ! 

Thy hosts leaped in the fiercest fray 
When bled the noblest sons to save 

Our mighty realm for Freedom's sway. 
Thy children know where honor lies. 

The deeds that greatness consecrate, 
And on their stalwart virtues rise 

The pillars of the peerless State. 



A PORTRAIT. 

Her face I do not seek to show — 

It would have charmed Angelico — 

It is her spirit that I try 

To picture to the spirit's eye — 

Try, though I fail — words lack the power 

To paint the essence of a flower. 

Her simple presence touches one 

As if a new life had begun. 

To my own self I am more dear 

By merely knowing she is near. 



55 



56 



A PORTRAIT. 

And yet, like healing mountain air, 
She breathes her sweetness unaware. 
Caressing clouds, the soul of May, 
The blossom of a perfect day. 
The lapse of moonlit waves that tells 
Its sympathy with dying bells. 
The forest calm, when one is heard 
Who worships without wish or word, 
The Sabbath of untrodden snows, 
Are metaphors of her repose. 
She walks within a world that lies 
Concealed from unanointed eyes. 
Her heart has guests that never come 
To any but a virgin home : 
In hers, what friends of wisdom meet, 
What lips of stainless honor greet ; 
With what supreme contentment rest 
The doves of peace in such a nest ; 
Angels of Beauty flock to see 
The lilies of her purity ; — 
And well they may, for she is one 
Who stands unsullied in the sun. 
Her inmost selfhood is a shrine 
Lighted and fed by love divine. 
Naught breaks the fine accord that flows 
In what she is and what she does. 
The morning meal, the evening chore. 
Her converse Vvith the wronged and poor, 
The simple handling of a book. 
The poem of her artless look, 



THE TULIP-TREE IN BLOSSOM. 

The little motions of her feet, 
Her silences, and breathings sweet, 
Are time-beats void of earthly din, 
Of hymns and harmonies within. 



THE TULIP-TREE IN BLOSSOM. 

Sylvan splendor! Meadow's pride ! 
Pet of lawns, and Summer's bride ! 
Naught but perfumed airs, and words 
Culled from madrigals of birds. 
Strains of lapsing brooks between 
Rosy rocks and banks of green. 
Whispers in the scented grass 
As the robins pause and pass, 
Echoes of far-off cascades 
In the gleam of moonlit glades, 
Suit the mellow roundelays 
That should carol in thy praise. 
As if I should try to paint 
Sacred raptures of a saint. 
So I strive with loving strain — 
Strive, and strive, alas ! in vain, 
All thy witching charms to tell — 
Flora's woodland miracle ! 

Tell me, therefore, gracious one. 
Of thy dalliance with the sun. 



57 



58 THE TULIP-TREE IN BLOSSOM. 

What elixir feeds thy shoots, 
The alembic at thy roots, 
That thy life so fair should be — 
Spirit breathing in a tree ! 

Tell me of thy trance at noon 
In the luscious kiss of June, 
All thy languors, heats, desire, 
Till thy blossoms glow like fire ; 
Why the zephyrs ne'er refuse 
Thee the secret forest news. 
How is caught the tender gold 
That thy royal pitchers hold, 
And to all as freely pour 
As if Danae felt the shower. 
Do the birds thy boughs among 
Learn a catch of fresher song ? 
Why does every vagrant bee 
Feel so much at home with thee ? 
Tell me why, beside thy feet. 
Love, to lovers, seems more sweet 
Happy children think they stand 
In the bower of fairy-land, 
And the poet's heart is pressed 
Closer still to Beauty's breast. 

Vain I ask — but still I feel 
All I pray thee to reveal. 
Life of thine is life to me, — 
High-born, peerless Tulip-Tree ! 



GOLDEN-ROD. 



GOLDEN-ROD. 



59 



Yon meadow edge, low ridge, and briery dell 
Are splendid with the Golden-rod's array. 

And shafts of gold in thicket and by stream 
Catch on their glitt'ring spires the morning ray. 

Along a path whose gleaming broidery 
Feels now and then her finger-tips caress, 

A maiden comes, and all its fringe of gold 
Is richer for her simple loveliness. 

The quaint, old school-house, where she ministers. 
Stands weather-stained against a bank of bloom, 

And golden sprays, which little hands have brought, 
Deck with a sunny air its single room. 

Among the children she is as a child. 
Guileless, and artless, innocent as they. 

Wise without thinking how much wisdom lies 
In doing love's sweet service day by day. 

Her eyes reflect their trust, her hand is soft. 
As with a heart-pulse on each shining head ; 

And humoring their childish wonderment. 
Their thirst for knowing grows as it is fed. 



'£3 to' 



Unconsciously, she plants the deathless germs 
Of what in ripened lives shall noblest be : 



6o PJ^O P ATRIA. 

And tasks are play, and duty a delight, 
In the glad sunshine of her sympathy. 

The pages conned in her approving smile 
Become illumined by her tender face. 

Whose soulful light, in after years, shines on 
With a consoling, animating grace. 

O, blessed service ! Happy hearts that find 
In such companionship the light of God ! 

The best of all in life's great school ye learn, 
Led by the love that wields the Golden Rod. 



PRO P ATRIA. 

And has it come to this ? Is conscience dead ? 

Are glorious hopes that lit the nation's wvn 
Already fading ? and of truth instead 

Are fraud and lies ? Is civic honor gone ? 
Have crowns, enwrought of every virtue's flower, 
To tempt to noble deeds no quickening power ? 

Where are the lofty passions that inspire 
Heroic service ? that, with impulse strong. 

Feed will and purpose with a quenchless fire 

That 'lumines truth, and brands the blatant 
wrong ? 

Shall juggling pelf instead of justice reign ? 

And grovelling lusts God's image still profane ? 



PRO PATRTA. 6 1 

Shall self-indulgence be the only aim 

Of souls that of the ages have the dower ? 

Shall sordid arts our later annals shame, 
And flesh o'er spirit sway derisive power ? 

What is the end of living, but to know 

The Master's life, and in his likeness grow ? 

O cursed greed ! O baleful breath that blasts 
The dewy bloom of Youth's enchanted morn ! 

O godless Mammon ! whose ambition grasps 
At what the pure and single-hearted scorn ; 

Must ye still flaunt your shows, and basely use 

The gifts that ye Christ's little ones refuse ? 

Shall the strong faith in the eternal Good 

Die in the languor of a weak desire ? 
Shall manhood waste the iron of its blood 

For what conceit and indolence admire ? 
Majestic Spirit of the brave and wise ! 
Breathe life and health — O, in thy might arise ! 

O great thoughts of the fathers ! deeds as great ! 

O spirit valiant in a will that's pure ! 
What shall renew, maintain, exalt the state, 

Unless the greatness of the soul endure ? 
How shall the Christ take earth's abiding throne 
Lest human lives are modelled from his own ? 

Courage, true heart! firm the Ideal hold 

That charmed at first thy high impassioned dreams ; 



62 ^^ THE MOUNTAINS. 

Thy glorious quest is not for place nor gold, 

But on where Duty's spotless scutcheon gleams. 
What though thy comrades flinch, and friends resign ? 
Strike swift and hard, the triumph shall be thine. 



IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

Wild, rocky slopes, stern peaks that gleam and soar, 

Gorges that cleave the battlemented dome, 
Sun-lighted cliffs that hear the torrents' roar, 

Dark haunts where herdless creatures hide and 
roam. 
Grand forest-aisle, cool grot, and templed shrine, — 

All hail ! and thanks for welcome to your guest ! 
The blessing of the mountains now is mine. 

I lie in silent rapture on their breast. 

Ah, how the greedy world of strife and sin 

Fades in the holy solitude I've found ; 
Silent are all the discords of its din. 

In the divine tranquillity around. 
Naught harsher than the cooing of a dove 

Salutes me in this sanctuary's shade ; 
The air is sacramental with the Love 

Whose soul is here in every charm arrayed. 

'Tis life in all. I feel its healing power 

From gushing spring to hoary crags on high. 

In darkling glen, and tender mountain flower, 
In odorous breeze, and palpitating sky : 



63 



THE REV. DR. ORVILLE DEWEY. 

Out of the mossy rock, and from the steep 
Graved with the signet of uncounted years, 

Where droop the ferns, and mighty forests sleep, 
I feel the life that all the scene endears. 



Here is the place of worship. O, how sweet 

These voices of the wilderness that speak 
Of the Eternal Goodness, and repeat 

Praises and thanks for which my own are weak ! 
O, Spirit of the mountains ! make me strong : 

Breathe through me airs that freshen and renew ; 
And may I keep the key-note of the song 

That in these grandeurs is forever true. 



THE REV. DR. ORVILLE DEWEY. 

[Read at his Memorial Service, Sheffield, Mass.] 

See in the West how grand yon mountain stands. 
Its base rock-rooted, and its lofty brow 
Serene, alike in sunshine and the storm. 
In its recesses birds and runlets sing; 
Its groves are fresh with beauty, fountains gush 
Amidst its thickets, and the wild flowers blow 
By sylvan paths all through its templed shade. 
About its borders quiet farms are tilled. 
And life is nourished there, and praise ascends 
Through all the days to Him w^ho is unseen. 
So, strong and firm, upon the Living Rock, 
Whose waters slake the cravings of the world. 



64 /ESSIE. 

Stood our great friend in God's eternal day, 
Clothed on with beauty, making music sweet, 
That held in holy thrall the hearts of men, 
Till Christ should enter in and sup with them, 
Unmoved by storms that prostrate faithless souls, 
And calmly waiting the new earth and Heaven. 



JESSIE. 

[April 14, 1884.] 

Perfect peace and perfect rest ! 

There she lies without a stain. 
" Best ? " how can we say 'tis best, 

In the anguish of our pain ? 

Best, when such a joy is gone ? 

Best, with life so maimed and rent ? 
Best, because she has withdrawn 

Where her guardian angels went ? 

Never did this household dove 
Pine for alien skies and bowers : 

She was well content to love, 
And with human love like ours. 

All our hopes with hers were blent ; 

Flower of love, in love she grew, 
Her unfolding sweetness lent 

Freshness to our hearts like dew. 



BUR .vs. 

O the days, the nights, the tears — 
Evermore her vacant place — 

While we wait through barren years, 
For her step, her voice, her face ; 

Nevermore to feel her cheek 
Softly pressed against our own, 

Nevermore to hear her speak 
In the old familiar tone ; 

Wondering if her sight discerns 
All we daily have to bear — 

If she never fondly yearns 
Our companionship to share ! 

Tender Comforter, abide 

With us till the shadows flee : 

Hide us in Thy fulness, hide, 
Till with our beloved we be. 



BURA'S. 

The Voice of a wondrous Seer ! 

The voice of a soul that is strong ! 
As true as Love, and as swift as Fear 

In the mazes of marvellous song. 

Far over the mountains bare. 
Red heather, and ridges of sea. 

It flows in the pulse of the living air. 
And throbs in the veins of the free. 



6s 



66 BURNS. 

It whispers in Summer's breath, 

It lisps on the creamy shore, 
It sings in the lips that smile at death, 

In the storm and cataract's roar. 

It murmurs in brae and birk, 

It pleads in the daisy's eye, 
Where hands are toughened by honest work, 

And bairns in their cradles lie ; 

In cottage, in kirk, and bower. 

In hall, in court, and in mart. 
In the chirp of the mavis, and hawthorn flower, 

And the maiden's simple heart. 

It croons in the blaze of the inn. 
Where the droughty neighbors bide, 

It shrieks in the ghastly glare and din, 
Where the witches dance and ride. 

Its mirth is a tempest of glee, 

Its grief is the smart of fire, 
Its solemn strain is the trump of the sea. 

Its chorus the world's desire ! 

I listen, and brooklet and wold. 
Wild bird and the darkling wood 

Are breathing secrets before untold 
Of the perfect and passionless Good. 



BURNS. 

I list to the Voice as it flies, 

And sings to the lands and the years, 
And the light is clearer in Freedom's eyes, 

And Poverty wipes his tears. 

I see that the Poet's heart 

Is brother to all who feel, 
That the tender touch of its artless art 

Is stronger than rivets of steel. 

I see how that man is great 

Because he is simply man ; 
That the minions of grandeur and state 

On manhood can fasten no ban. 

I see how to peoples and times 
The life of the singer leaps on. 

And gladdens the welcoming climes, 
Like Spring-bursts of blossom and sun. 

I ache with the stress of the strain — 
Its music, and wildness, and heat ; 

Yet pressed on the heart of my pain 
Are the lips of its prophecy sweet. 

And singing myself I go — 

Unconscious of frown or of rod — 

To the work whose choruses flow 
With the joy and the praises of God. 



67 



^ SWEET CLOVER. 



SWEET CLOVER. 

I HAVE breathed a tinted air 

Of delicate odor 
Feeling something new and rare 

Since first I saw her. 

Sudden glow in garden glade 

Where she's a rover ; 
We meet — I give her, half afraid, 

Sprays of sweet clover. 

She is reading now her book, 

I'll not disturb her ; 
Merely o'er her shoulder look — 

Lo ! the sweet clover. 

It was twilight's softest hour, 
Fragrant and tender — 

Life burst to glorious flower 
In her surrender. 

It's all one splendid rose — 

Perfect completeness ! 
Who cares how the world goes ? 

We've all its sweetness ! 

We journey here and there 
In various weather, 



SAMUEL OSGOOD. 

Little reck we how or where, 
Since we're together. 

Fair home all sheltered sweet, 

Caressing and caressed ; 
Children playing at our feet, 

Blessing and blest. 

Love's sacred volume read 

Over and over, 
Every page, since we were wed. 

Scented with clover. 

A sweet-leafed mound apart. 

Green in October ; 
Alone ? — Ah ! she left her heart — 

Soul of sweet clover ! 



SAMUEL OSGOOD. 

Wail on, O winds of April, wail ! 

Sweet month of flowers and song, delay ! 
Why should the softer airs prevail ? 

What gladness now can come with May ? 

For he to whom the springtime brought 
Such joy of heart and rest of brain 

Shall feel no more the healing wrought 
By meadow bloom and springing grain. 



69 



70 



SAMUEL OSGOOD. 



But yet the vernal days shall shed 
Their vital breath in earth and air, 

And birds shall build, and young leaves spread 
Their palms abroad in praise and prayer. 

And paths that every season grew 

More sacred to his reverent feet 
Shall all their ancient charms renew. 

In beauteous Waldstein's dear retreat. 

But who shall enter where he stood, 
And worshipped Love in highest law, 

And saw and grasped the inner good. 
With childlike faith and holy awe t 

In vain the orchard's bloom shall glow, 
The shadows play upon the grass. 

The west winds sing, the roses blow. 
And Nature's grand procession pass. 

But we shall think, with tender tears. 
Of what he was in this green earth. 

And, as each gentle flower appears. 
Shall more and more revere his worth. 

And still our hearts will ache and yearn 

To look into his tranquil eyes, 
To hear his voice, and from him learn 

The wisdom that is trulv wise. 



THE CATSKILLS IN OCTOBER. yi 

Fairfield, by his pure life more fair, 
More lovely by the love he gave, 

Of all thy beauty he can share 

Only the turf that wraps his grave. 
April 17, 1880. 



THE CATSKILLS IN OCTOBER. 

The forests blaze with colors manifold. 

Lighting the stately peaks and yawning deep 
With scarlet flame and waves of living gold, 

And pouring crimson cascades down the steep. 

Piled like commingled rainbows, heap on heap, 
Along the far horizon's purple line. 

The tinted summits, in their mighty sweep 
Of bannered ranks, in sovran grandeur shine. 
And all the lands beneath wear Autumn's splendid 
sign. 

Ah, how delicious is the morning's breath 

Poured from the font of heaven's untainted air! 
Who, in its luxury, can think of death ? 

Or heed the voices of corroding Care ? 

Whoever in this sumptuous show may share, 
Feels Nature's throbbing heart against his own. 

'Tis one vast sea of beauty everywhere. 
Whose deep with lovely argosies is sown, 
Where souls can bathe, and take, clear-eyed, a high- 
er throne. 



72 



TO C. E. P. 



Now, 'neath noon's gauzy cloudlets overhead, 

A golden haze its mystery distils : 
The mellow sky and distant peaks seem wed ; 

A subtle odor all the woodland fills, 

As if the goblet of the Seasons spills 
The rich aroma of their ripened wine — 

Vintage of fruitful vales and flowering hills ! 
I yield to the intoxication fine, 

And seem to walk with gods and feel their empire 
mine. 

Inebriate with beauty ! let me hold 

These peerless pictures that enamour so, 
Embalmed in love and set in Memor}''s gold, 

Through all the weary paths where I must go. 

A charm o'er blighted prospects they shall throw, 
And calm me with their glorified repose 

'Mid the confusion of the world below. 
The secret of the universe who knows 1 
To him who deepest sees, the wonder grows and 
grows. 



TO C. E. P. 

[In her absence, on her birthday.] 

Alone in the hush of the darkness 
I watch while the city sleeps, 

And my heart is restless and weary 
With the vigil that it keeps. 



I 



TO C. E. P. 

I think of the years that have vanished — 
Their toils, and trials, and tears ; 

And, soft through the sorrow and distance, 
A beautiful face appears. 

'Tis the face of a delicate maiden, 
Tender, and trustful, and sweet. 

And my life and its hopes and treasures 
Are lying beside her feet. 

And then 'tis the face of a mother 
With her babe against her cheek, 

And a joy in her bosom richer 
Than eloquent words can speak. 

And then 'mid the household duties, 

Lovingly doing her part. 
That face is a gleam of the sunshine 

That glows in her gentle heart. 

I see, 'mid the cares that encumber, 
And the pain that gnaws and stings. 

The look that is sweet with patience. 
And the smile that courage brings. 

And as, in the silent chamber. 
By our darling dead we stand. 

Her brow is touched with the lustre 
That falls from the Better Land. 



73 



74 LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD. 

And, on through the years with their changes, 
Fairer still, that pure, dear face 

Sheds on me its calm, healing blessing 
Of Love's ineffable grace. 

And now all the picture is holy — 
It glows in the depths of my life. 

O victor ! in suffering unceasing, 

God keep thee, my true-hearted wife. 



LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD. 

[On the unveiling of the Statue.] 

This is the glorious Sign 

That Freedom stands secure. 
Swaying by right divine 

A power that shall endure. 
Upward she points her glowing hand 
In gesture all can understand. 

She tells of justice gained. 

Of serfdom overthrown. 
She shows a cause unstained. 

And truth to stature grown : 
And lights the way where human kind 
Their long-sought Canaan-rest may find. 

How wide her reign extends ! 
How blessed her domain ! 



THE BURIAL OF GRANT. 75 

Empire to empire sends 

Thanksgivings in her name ; 
And plenteous homes and harvests grow 
Where her benignant lustres glow. 

Ye despots, tremble now ! 

Poor trampled slaves, awake ! 
The crown upon her brow 

Is glorious for your sake. 
See what a heritage appears 
To those who ate the bread of tears ! 

The trump of doom has blown 

To haters of mankind : 
The seeds of love are sown 

Which coming men shall find. 
And one great brotherhood, at last, 
Shall bind the severed nations fast ! 



THE BURIAL OF GRANT. 

Whom do they bear, in this supreme array, 
Along the shrouded streets to-day, 
With dirge, and drooping flag, and booming gun, 
'Mid reverent throngs whose grateful hearts are one 
In affluent praises, and whose memories blend 
In one strong picture of a nation's friend ? 

What is there in this cold and coffined clay 
That breathes a spell so grand. 



^6 THE BURIAL OF GRANT. 

Of homage and command, 

To stir the conscious heart of every land ? 

A nation's chaplets strew the funeral way ; 

Thrones make obeisance : through Earth's distant 

zones 
Applauding peoples, in accordant tones, 
Hail one great name, for whose immortal sound 
Fame's wide-mouthed trump a loftier note has found. 
Ah ! 'tis the faithful life that is approved ! 
It is the champion of the Right that's loved ! 
He is the Voice of that deep undertone 
That asks for man what God has made liis own. 
He is the Valor that, 'mid scoffs and foes, 
Without debate, to duty calmly goes. 
He is the Will unswerving, unsubdued. 
That does the honest work because 'tis good. 
He is the Honor that more lustrous shines 
As envy snarls and calumny maligns. 
He is the Captain whose supreme campaign 
Is fought that peace and brotherhood may reign. 
He is the King whose royal realm extends 
Where hostile ranks embrace and States are friends. 
He is the glorious Conqueror whose breath 
Is caught to endless life by kindly death. 
Let the martial files with solemn tread 
Follow the mighty dead : 
Let civic bands with tearful reverence move 
Beside the pall of him who earned our love. 
Through the vast tides of life that pour 
Around the hearse that bears the Hero on. 



AT CONFESSION. 



77 



One thought is regnant now, and shall be evermore, 

With those who through the ages make the State : 

The work he sought to do is done. 

His fight for blessed peace is won, 

The Union free and strong, 

Clean from the curse of wrong. 

Welded by sacred ties, and consecrate 

By all that makes an empire great — 

The noblest birth of time — 

Shall be his monument sublime. 



AT CONFESSION. 

How much he said that the poets know — 

That wrinkled and artless man — 
'Neath the apple-boughs, in the eve's warm glow, 

And like this his queries ran : — 

Why seems the wind in the haunted dell 

A troubled spirit's cry ? 
And why did you feel in the midnight spell 

Some horrible Thing was nigh ? 

Can you tell what soothed with a luscious charm 

Your heart in the dewy wood ? 
And the creeping dread of a boding harm 

Have you ever understood ? 



78 AT CONFESSION. 

As your dream was sweet where the sea sung low 
With the pines of the rock-ribbed beach, 

Did you learn where the shapes of Beauty go 
That your spirit yearned to reach ? 

When the roses bloomed, and the night was still 
In the trance of the great, soft moon. 

Were you told the tender secrets that fill 
The passionate heart of June ? 

Why did you feel in your common ways, 

Like a ghost unbidden, rise 
The awful Marvel of life, and gaze 

At yourself with frightened eyes ? 

And teased with thoughts of the myriad whole 

Of the Infinite around, 
Why did you gasp, as your aching soul 

In the boundless deep seemed drowned ? 

'Mid the wrecks of hope that strew life's shore, 

And the woes you cannot flee, 
Why mused you thus, " I will love no more, 

It is better not to be ? " 

And I took his hand, as he gazed above — 

Past the apple-blooms — and said, 
" Love on, as if there were naught but love, 

Though millions of lovers are dead." 



THE COLOR-SPIRIT. 



79 



THE COLOR-SPIRIT, 
Through hazy noons, crisp night, and luscious morn- 
ing, 
A Spirit has been busy everywhere. 
The happy fields with gorgeous hues adorning, 
Till color seemed to animate the air. 

It breathed upon the forests which, enchanted, 
Waved fiery plumes, and banner-pomp unrolled ; 

And the mysterious mountain-depths it haunted, 
Till they were changed to palaces of gold. 

It wrapped a glittering vest of scarlet splendor 
Round quiet meads between the billowy hills. 

And lit the cliffs, and sifted radiance tender 

Through glowing boughs that screen the bickering 
rills. 

Through briery dell and over vine-draped ledges 
In trailing fire its devious wanderings sped ; 

It broidered sedgy pools and meadow edges 
With scarfs of saffron tied with crimson thread. 

Softly upon the bosses of the lea-lands 
It wrote sweet poems in commingled hues. 

And where the barberry droops beside the sea- 
sands, 
It told in colored script the autumn news. 



8o IN TIM A TIONS. 

How dost thou paint, O Spirit, in such glory 
The circling landscape and refulgent even ? 

The pictures wrought in thy illumined story 
Are like a page torn from the book of Heaven. 

What witchery works mutations so amazing ? 

How comes the art that the design conceives ? 
Who mixes colors when the lands are blazing 

With seas of sunshine and transfigured leaves 

O the enchantment of the myriad beauty ! 

Wrought as in some delirium divine : 
Be it the word of love, or trust, or duty, 

The rapture of the message now is mine ! 



INTIMATIONS. 

I WENT into the woods, and where 

Black rocks and cedar shade 

A solemn twilight made, 
A sense of something awful in the air 
Crept through me unaware. 

I wandered to the lonely mere. 

And from its dismal sedge 

And dead trunks on its edge, 
I felt the breath of some strange phantom near 
Whose face did not appear. 



TRIUMPHANT. 8 1 

Upon the mountain-peak I stood, 

And, while through splendid skies 
I saw the sun arise, 

A power that glorified the solitude 

Upon me seemed to brood. 

By the ocean's trackless strand, 

And in the waste and roar 

Of breakers on the shore, 
A presence, neither of the sea nor land, 
Touched me with mystic hand. 

Am I, or not, of this a part ? 

Where'er my footsteps stray 

I never get away 
From thee. O wonder, whatsoe'er thou art, 
That teasest at mv heart. 



TRIUMPHANT. 

" So it ends — all is o'er — 
Cold lips to cold clay." 

What ? she living no more ? 
Is that what you say ? 

I say she is not dead : 
Her life could not cease : 

Only its husk is shed — 
But she has release. 



82 TRIUMPHANT. 

She there under the sod, — 
In the black earth laid ? 

Do you think the good God 
Would kill what he made 

So radiant, so fair. 

So sweet, and so pure ? 

Creature with gifts so rare 
He made to endure. 

She's not there — could not die 
What, weeping, they bore 

To the grave, she put by 
As needed no more. 

She lives, and her beauty 
Was never so sweet, 

Her service of duty 
Was never so fleet. 

With the highest she flies 
In the heavenly place, 

With joy in her eyes. 
And light on her face. 

Hush 3'Our railing at death. 

Soul smiles at decay ; 
She has life's fullest breath — 

Its luminous day. 



COULD THE POEMS EELT AND SUNG. 83 



COULD THE POEMS FELT AND SUNG, 

Could the poems felt and sung 

In the praise of beauteous maid 
On the circling air be flung, 

And in bloom of flowers arrayed, 
They would wreathe the earth around, 

Till it was a rosy sphere, 
And a heaven of witching sound 

Make the boundless atmosphere. 

Though, since Adam woke to find 

Woman as his better self, 
Love has been accused as blind. 

Fooled by shams and won by pelf ; 
Though, who love must, perforce, cry, 

" One is lovely, only one," 
Inly can I smile, for I 

Know viifie is that only one. 

For the gracious charms of all 

That inflames with sacred fire, 
That can ravish and enthrall. 

Tender awe and trust inspire : 
All of sweetness that is sweet, — 

Loveliest love of name divine, — 
In the peerless beauty meet 

Of the paragon that's mine. 



84 



THE ANCHORITE IN HIS CELL. 

Lovers, then, may hug their dreams, 

Claim their charmers sweetest, best ; 
Boast as theirs what only seems 

To the heated heart expressed : 
Let them rave ; their dazzled eyes 

See not whence the light is poured ; 
Only in my Paradise 

Is the flawless Eve restored. 



THE ANCHORITE IN HIS CELL. 

A. D. 370. 

I DO not ask, O Christ, how long 

These festering thralls must hold me down ; 
Smite on — but only make me strong 

To earn my long-expected crown. 

From this lone bed of rock I rise 

To scourgings, fastings, wrestling prayer, 

And, in my nightly sacrifice, 
My sinful flesh I do not spare. 

Come balmy airs, or blistering heat. 

Let landscapes bloom, or tempests rave, 

Naught nature sends is sad or sweet, 
With a polluted soul to save. 

Fools are the greedy herd below — 

The fools of Mammon's whims and smirk ; 



THE ANCHORITE IN HIS CELL. 85 

They cheat, and strut, nor care to know 
How well they do the devil's work. 

Some laugh, and joke, and take their ease, 
And sing their songs, and self admire, 

Contented, if the present please. 
While roars beneath the pit of fire. 

I know the hollowness that lies 

In all the silly shows of earth ; 
I know the fiends who feast their eyes 

And dance in sight of human mirth. 

It is a mass of foulness all — 

Their gilded pleasures, sordid gains ; 

They wanton 'neath a funeral pall, 
The blood is poison in their veins. 

I hate the sounds of street and home, 
The cheerful talk, and pleasant ways, 

And quiet mind that seems to come 
To those who spend laborious days. 

I hate the lustful, boastful world, 

Its painted face and rotten heart, 
And wait to see its minions hurled 

To endless flame, ere I depart. 

Yet all goes on the same. How long. 
How long, O Lord, shall Satan reign ? 



36 COR CORDIUM. 

When judgment come ? Forgive the wrong, 
If of thy mercy I complain. 

Here have I fled. I bless my pains, 
Though round me mocking faces grin : 

I hope ere long to purge my stains, 
And out of torture leave my sin. 



COR CORDIUM. 

The freshness of the woods is mine. 

I lie in baths of mountain air ; 
The forest's depths of beech and pine 

Fold grandly round me everywhere. 

The thrush's song is sweet and low ; 

A water-spirit stirs the ferns 
Down where the silvery trickles flow 

O'er em'rald brims of sylvan urns. 

On leafy glade and granite walls 

The sunshine's misty splendors stream. 

Afar a lone dove sorrowing calls 

As if the wood moaned in its dream. 

I see where purple lichens glow, 

Where mosses drink supreme content, 

Where spreads the clematis, like snow, 
The curtains of its spotless tent. 



COR CORDIUM. 

I see what chronicles are graved 
On splintered cliff and weird ravine, 

And how the teeming ground is paved 
With beauteous forms of what has been. 

The pine tree's sigh and brooklet's mirth 
Are in my heart with joy and pain, 

And all the sad and sweet of earth 
Pleads in the pathos of the strain. 

Far o'er me palpitates the blue. 
As if Love hovered softly there, 

And, from her tender bosom, drew 
The holy calm that fills the air. 

O sky above and world below ! 

What is the secret of your speech ? 
Oh, why, beyond your glorious show, 

Does soul with restless yearnings reach ? 

What is the Life that life conceals ? 

The inner force ? the primal fire ? 
The potency that makes, and feels, 

And baffles most as we aspire ? 

What is the end, the good at last. 
When each appointed task is done. 

When every phase of change is past. 
And being's goal of conquest won ? 



87 



88 COR CORDIUM. 

The mystic pageant comes and goes ; 

The old is new ; the sad is gay ; 
The Everlasting Order flows 

While hearts grow still and suns decay. 

Amid the Infinite I grope ; 

I faint with reaching for a shore, 
But hear the angels Faith and Hope, — 

" To Love shall life be more and more.' 



IN THE CLOSET 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



IN THE CLOSET. 

Lord, though Thou knowest all 

I am and wish to be, 
My weary soul must fall 

And rest itself on Thee. 

I thank Thee for my tears ; 

I praise Thee in my pain ; 
I feel, through all my years, 

No chastening has been vain. 

I do not ask release 

From daily toil and care ; 

Nor that my heart should cease 
The griefs of men to share. 

Thy grace I do not claim 
Because my cross is sore ; 

I know that all he blame 
Of sin is mine, and more. 
91 



92 



IN THE CLOSET. 

But I must praise and plead, 

And tell how I aspire, 
Though but a bruised reed, 

Though flax of smothered fire. 

Thou knowest how I long 
Like the dear Christ to be, 

Gentle, and pure, and strong. 
In Love's sweet liberty; 

Like Christ to walk each day 
'Mong men with hopeful eyes, 

And serve them as I may 
In bounteous sacrifice. 

Thou knowest I would use 

Life after Thy design ; 
O mould it, Lord, and fuse 

Purpose and will with Thine. 

Show me Thy beauty so 
That I shall be constrained 

In holier paths to go. 

Though glorious heights be gained ; 

So that I shall not see 

Myself, except that I 
In Love's immensity, 

A deeper deep descry. 



OUR DWELLING-PLACE. 

In vain my lips essay- 
To tell my full request ; 

Thou hearest all I'd say, 
If I could breathe the rest. 

And so I simply cast 

All doubt and fear aside, 

And on Thy goodness vast 
In speechless trust abide. 



93 



OUR DWELLING-PLACE. 

' Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations." 

— Psalm xc. I. 

I SEEK His dwelling-place. Afar 
I range abysses without bound ; 

I touch a sun, I touch a star. 

But nowhere feel the solid ground. 

Darkness in constellated height ! 

Darkness in gulfs of stellar sea ! 
On, on, and yet no home in sight ! 

Where can the gracious refuge be ? 

The deeps devour my wordless cry : 
Fainting, I feel no friendly shore ; 

The myriad worlds go hurtling by — 
The voids are colder than before. 



94 



LAST CHRISTMAS. 

O nameless Good ! O Thou in whom 

Is all that was and is to be, 
Is there not in Thy bosom room 

For a poor, houseless wretch like me ? 

'Tis warmth and light, 'tis love, 'tis home, 
Rest, calm and sweet, for which I pine : 

From Thee I came, to Thee I come — 
How shall Thy dwelling-place be mine ? 

Ah ! who is this that takes my hand ? 

That lifts me from the pit and mire ? 
That heals, consoles, and makes me stand, 

And gives the rest that I desire ? 

Dear Son of God ! Thy blessed face 
Shows where the hungry soul may flee. 

Thy heart is Home and hiding-place, 
And I am satisfied with Thee. 



LAST CHRISTMAS. 

Twelve months ago, the Christmas chimes 
Blent with her softly murmured prayer : 

To-day, she does not lisp a word 

For all that makes the world so fair. 

Twelve months ago, the Christmas chimes 
Blent with her softly murmured prayer : 



TRANSFORMED, 95 

To-day, her voice more purely sweet 
Is wafted through celestial air. 

Twelve months ago, with radiant brow, 
She meekly passed the minster-door : 

To-day, she makes no lowly sign, 

As Christ's dear name is chanted o'er. 

Twelve months ago, with radiant brow, 
She meekly passed the minster-door : 

To-day, her life is perfect praise 

Where temples are not needed more. 

Twelve months ago, she thought how blest 
The lips that kissed the Master's feet : 

To-day, the heart that loved so well 
Is folded in the winding sheet. 

Twelve months ago, she thought how blest 
The lips that kissed the Master's feet : 

To-day, she has her Lord's own joy. 

And all that makes his friendship sweet. 



TRANSFORMED. 

The gray, old church, I am its guest once more ; 

O blessed refuge ! like a child I come 
And kneel where I so often knelt, before 

My long, bleak exile. This is home, sweet home ! 



96 



TRANSFORMED. 



O heart be still, nor count the cruel years — 
Thy fair, fresh trusts to this dear place belong. 

The people gather and the priest appears ; 
There is confession, Scripture, sermon, song. 

The same great words are on the sculptured wall. 
The same high hopes in storied window flame, 

Chancel, and nave, and splendid roof, and all 
Are as they were, yet nothing is the same. 

Ah, bitter change ! how grievous it has grown ! 

Tears burn my heart — the very organ grieves : 
Through chant and hymn, a pining undertone 

Of plaintive protest dolorously breathes. 

Dead are the roses in the oriel's blaze, 

The lilies of the altar are not fair. 
And sad the pictured saints whose pensive gaze 

Rebukes the dead discourse and soulless prayer. 

He is not here whose life's unsullied beam 
To beauteous service showed the joyous way; 

Who made the truth, to eager spirits, seem 

The deathless good they loved and sought alway. 

* He ate the hidden manna, and he wore 

The white stone graven with the dear, new name ; 

The little ones in tender arms he bore. 

And took a cross to spare a brother's shame. 

* Rev. ii. 17. 



CHRISTMAS. g^ 

What peerless landscapes rose, what spectres fled, 
In desert wilds what springs bedewed the sod, 

As with persuasive voice the flock he led 
To living pastures on the mount of God. 

O strong, pure heart that all its sweetness gave ! 

O tender soul that suffered so for men ! 
Gentle, and true, and merciful, and brave — 

How vain my life, if thine had never been. 

The shadows deepen at the noontide hour ; 

He is not here, and he will never come. 
Ah ! could I wear his spirit's perfect flower. 

Where'er I wander, it would still be home. 



CHRISTMAS. 

Whither, O shepherds, ere the stars expire 

Out of the deep Judean sky. 
Spurred by the joy of a fulfilled desire, 

Haste ye, and what descry 1 

There 'neath the inn's bare shed, 

In the rude manger-bed, 
Is found the Wonder all the ages sought. 

The Good-News pulsates in angelic song, 

Which time shall bear to its last breath, along 
The very earth with gladness seems rewrought, 

And groping life has light, whose ray 

Shines to the brightness of the perfect day. 



98 



CHRISTMAS. 



See ! here is Motherhood supreme — 

Its pure content and its unfading dream, 

All that it meekly bears 

In toils and tender cares — 

And blessed Infancy whose face 

Makes luminous the lowly place, 

And whose unconscious sweetness lies 

On hearts that watch with awed and rapt surprise. 

And here is all fair Childhood will unfold, 

And all that's written in Youth's book of gold : 

And here is the majestic prophecy 

Of what mankind in full-orbed growth may be, — 

God-born, benign, exultant, wise, and free, — 

Set mid the splendors of eternity ! 

O gentle Christ ! O child that ever lives, 

And to the child-life gives 
The loveliness that's heralded in Thine, 

All that enamours earth 

Attends Thy glorious birth ; 
The eager heart of nations bends 
Before Thee, peerless Sign 

Of Heaven's compassions and redemption done. 
From Thee the hope of all the race extends, 

Thou well-beloved Son ! 

Dear Christ-child ! who shall tell 

Thy reign's incessant miracle ? 

Thine image in each infant face I see. 

All household gladness gets its charm from Thee : 



HYMN. 



99 



Thou art the beauty that survives 

In worn and weary lives : 

In squaUd chambers resonant of woe, 

Breaks an immortal glow, 

And moans are hushed, and suff'ring children 

rise — 
A new world smiling on their happy eyes : 
The hopes of life grow large and sweet ; 

Plague-spots are cleansed, the sin-sick healed, 
Joy comes to home on little pattering feet ; 

And little hands home's potent sceptre wield. 
Youth lives in Age, and sorrow has surcease 
In that great Friend who gently whispers, " Peace." 
The flowers of Heaven in time-worn pathways 

spring, 
For Love is King ! 



HYMN. 

There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God. — Heb. iv. 9. 

Bowed with the burden and the heat 

Of time's delusive quest, 
And sick at heart and sore of feet, 

We yearn, O God, for rest. 

Thou knowest all our toil and pain. 
Our conflicts and our tears ; 

Far seem the heights we strive to gain. 
And long our troubled years. 



lOO SEMPER UBIQUE. 

Out of our weariness we cry', 
'Mid burdens and distress ; 

For everlasting peace we sigh, 
And the Divine caress. 

Oh, better than we ask or think 
To us is Thy sweet will ; 

Life from Thy living Word we drink. 
And every fear is still. 

We yet can bear the cross, whose load 
Is lightened by Thy hand, 

And follow on, although the road 
Is through a weary land. 

It is enough that Christ has trod 
Each step and goes before ; 
Enough, if safe with thee, O God, 
We sin nor suffer more. 
May 10, 1878. 



SEMPER UBIQUE. 

Soft through the shimmering sunshine 
The wind of April breathes, 

And the soothing touch of a spirit 
Is the tender kiss it leaves. 

Ah ! what is the breath that caresses. 
The lustre and charm that fall 



SEMPER UBIQUE. iqi 

On my heart, but the dehcate greeting 
Of the Life that is over all ? 



I roam through the quiet of woodlands, 

As the buds begin to swell, 
And the early flowers are peeping 

Where last year's dead leaves fell ; 
And I know 'tis the pulses of Beauty 

That under the surface move, 
And that everywhere all that is lovely 

Is born in the light of Love. 

By the streams that laugh through the meadows, 

In the birds that sing and fly. 
In the moss of the rock, in the mountains, 

And the tender blue of the sky. 
Where the sea in the moon is gleaming, 

And the stars in their grandeur roll, 
I feel that the heart of Goodness 

Is throbbing through the whole. 

I look on the faces of mothers 

With their children cheek to cheek, 
On lovers whose silent rapture 

No lips can ever speak, 
I hear the songs that are sweetest 

Of all that the happy sing. 
And know each joy is a rill that flows 

From one eternal Spring. 



102 REASSURANCE. 

Yes, the Lord of all ages is with me — 

The centre and Sun of life, 
My Light in the dreariest darkness, 

My Peace 'mid the storms of strife. 
Of Him is the beauty that trances, 

The blessing in all that is blest, 
The worlds are safe on His bosom, 

And on His bosom I rest. 



REASSURANCE. 

Through scalding tears I fiercely strove to see 
If there was any light — a little ray — 

Any poor sign that I should ever be 

From my dark path led to a clearer way. 

For the hard yoke pressed harder — I grew sore 
With hope deferred and fruitless toil and loss ; 

And, reeling 'neath the galling weight I wore, 
It seemed I could no further bear my cross. 

The faintness of the way was at my heart ; 

" Is there aught more to live for ? " now I cried, 
" My hopes, my friends, my early faiths depart. 

And bitter things, I would escape, abide." 

And, groping in my weariness for rest, 
I saw, 'mid scenes of grievous human ill. 

That there were some, though terribly distressed, 
Who bore their lot with meek and cheerful will. 



EASTER. 



103 



I saw the feeble ones in sorrow's flame, 

Walking unscathed, as with a Friend unseen. 

And many a tender soul, through one dear Name, 
In blight and storm, submissive and serene. 

And to myself I said, " If these can bear 
So much with patient mind, why may not I ? 

Why should not I the blessed spirit share 
Of those who nobly live, yet daily die ? " 

And a strange power possessed me — entered in 
With light and balm my bruised, repining heart ; 

And then I knew it was the Christ within 
That courage gave and shield from evil art. 

And so I took my burden up again. 

Made easy by a stronger hand than mine. 

And learned that every earthly loss and sting of pain, 
By love transfigured, makes one's life divine. 



EASTER. 

You are bringing the lustrous lilies 

And pure, white blooms, to lay 
On the Church's holy altar 

For the risen Christ to-day. 
It seems that a sacred presence 

Caresses the Easter air. 
And you move as if you feared to break 

One's solitude of prayer. 



I04 



EASTER. 

As you wreathe the fair, sweet blossoms, 

You think of Mary's tears. 
And her joy in the early morning. 

As the living Christ appears ; 
You think of the two disciples 

Whose hearts burned with His word, 
As, on their way to Emmaus, 

They listened to the Lord. 

You think of the shining Angels 

Who watched the empty tomb. 
And how His wondering followers felt 

As He entered the upper room ; 
And you picture His tender greetings, 

Sweet converse, blessings sweet, 
And His look, as trembling Thomas 

Came and touched His hands and feet. 

But in your own heart's garden 

Do the pure, fresh lilies blow t 
Are your sins, which once were scarlet, 

In His love as white as snow ? 
Out of your baser selfhood 

Does the new, pure self arise ? 
Do you find your life as you lose it, 

In noble sacrifice ? 

Is light on your vision breaking 
As you feel the travail of earth, 

Yearning for Christ's dominion 
In the promised Easter's birth ? 



ECCLESIA. 

Does life wear an awful grandeur 
As you see where the Master trod 

In patience the wine-press of sorrow, 
To open the gates of God ? 

Does the Christ that you haste to welcome 

Go with you where you go ? 
Do you love Him in all the lovely ones 

That His resurrection know ? 
As you join in the Church's anthems, 

And kneel in the breaking of bread, 
Is your heart with the poor and forsaken, 

And babes in their lowly shed ? 

Ah ! Love is yet in his grave-clothes 

With many who swiftly run 
This morning with odors of worship, 

To welcome the risen One. 
And many a flower-decked temple 

Is vocal with praise to-day. 
Where the Christ of the heart and the ages 

Is cruelly thrust away. 



ECCLESIA. 

A VISION came. I saw the Bride descending 
Arrayed in spotless white, and fairer far 
Than sun, or moon, or splendid morning star, 
And songs of triumph sweet and never ending 
Were from the blessed company ascending, 



105 



I06 ECCLESIA. 

And all was beautiful in life and doing, 

Pure in high purpose and in heart and will 
Souls the ideal duty were pursuing, 

And, 'mid their painful paths, were faithful still. 

The strong sustained the feeble ; great and small, 
The wise and mighty, and the little child 

To the Redeemer consecrated all. 

Love was sole monarch ; in his kingdom mild 
The virtues flourished strong and undefiled ; 
And faith was kept, and justice gave to all 
Their righteous dues without the suppliant's call. 
To serve, to gain the good, to make a name 
That pleased the Master was the only fame 

Sought by the eager hearts that Mammon spurned. 
Great was the peace. In " sweetness and in 
light" 

Each for the other crowns and comforts earned, 
And found in mutual charities delight. 
O glorious Church ! O body unified 
Of many members, but through all supplied 
By the informing Spirit, in whose power 
Each wrought his part and grew to heavenly flow- 
er — 

How peerless in thy beauty ! . . . 
Ah! I dreamed — 

Sweet dream that vanished ! lo, instead. 
Symbol I saw, and decorated shrine : 

Out of the darkness curious relics gleamed ; 
Ascriptions rose, and sacred words were read. 
And manv wrang^led over things divine. 



ECCLESIA. 



107 



A few were dying to the world and sin, 

A few were faithful, counting all things loss 

So they the image of the Christ might win ; 
A few still bore the sacrificial cross, 
Patient and gentle, sweetening all the air 
With loving deeds and interceding prayer. 

And, more appeared — O tear-compelling sight ! — 
Forgotten vows, lives wrapped in sloth and pride. 

Vassals of fashion, shunners of the light. 
I saw the prophets stoned, and men deride 
The truth they swore to honor ; saw the poor 
Famish around the sanctuary's door ; 
And some in sacred garb, with solemn face. 
Denied the Master in His holy place ; 
And some defaced His image, as they strove 
For power and pelf, and trampled on the love 

That yearned to heal a troubled world's distress. 
I saw the pious shams that mock the Lord, 
And gaudy shows usurp the living Word ; 

And there were blessings mouthed that did not 
bless. 
And bargains struck in what is not for sale, 

And Folly sat in Wisdom's august throne, 

And smoothed its robes, and smiled amid the wail 

Of hearts that asked for bread, and gave a stone. 
" O God, is this Thy Holy Church ? " I cried, 
"Truth's Witness, Keeper of the Word, Christ's 

Bride ? " 
O living Lord ! appear in power again ! 
Renew, and cleanse, and consummate Thy reign. 



EARLIER POEMS. 



The following Poems are reprinted from the author's first volume of verse 
whose original dedication is retained. 



TO CLEMENCE. 

It has been your lot to suffer, and to be denied, withal, a 
deal that is suited to soften the hardship of your secluded 
life. But trial has not repressed your sympathy with whatever 
is engaging and enttobling ift hujuan existence , and you have 
never failed to make home attractive by a spirit whose patience 
and sweetness have hallowed all the years of our companionship. 
In some way that may assiire you of my appreciation and 
gratitude^ I wish to connect your beloved name with this little 
cluster of verse — the offspring of my heart ; but I can think of 
no words that tvill mean so much to you, or be so acceptable, as 
the simple statement, that 

/ DEDICA TE THIS VOL UME. 



ONE YEAR. 

A YEAR of sweets — a little year 

That vanished with our darling's breath. 

So strange ! it doth not yet appear 
What is the blessing hid in death. 

One little year, yet oh ! how long. 
With such a love as made our light ; 

Each day was a delicious song, 

Whose rapture lasted through the night. 

There came with him the keener sense 
Of what the perfect life may be ; 

And sad years had their recompense 
In what he gave unknowingly. 

The household voices caught his glee, 
The tasks of home were changed to play 

The freshness of his infancy 
On every pleasant prospect lay. 

113 



114 



ONE YEAR. 

How restful the contented heart 
Held his rare sweetness to its core, 

And turned from empty shows apart — 
Rich in his riches more and more. 

O shining brow, and golden hair, 

And eyes that looked beyond the blue ! 

Dear face that grew from fair to fair, 
The same, yet always something new ! 

A sweeter dream whoever dreamed 
Than came with his soft lips to ours ? 

Blent with his life, our being seemed 
Drowned in the glowing soul of flowers. 

All through the years his beauty shone ; 

His path and ours appeared the same ; 
And every good we called our own 

Was linked with his beloved name. 

O heart of God that pities all ! 

O Love that gives and takes away ! 
Confused and faint, on Thee we fall, 

Yet know not how we ought to pray, 

Save this, that in our doubt and fear 
We wait as loving children should. 

We cannot see, nor far nor near. 
But trust that somehow all is good. 



A ROSEBUD. 



A ROSEBUD. 



115 



It was merely the bud of a blood-red rose 

That I found 'tween the lids of my book to-day. 
What of it ? Nothing to you, I suppose — 

Sweet ashes a breath would scatter away. 
Yet here I am holding the dead, faded thing, 

As the sun drops out of the August sky, 
And the dew-drunken blossoms their odors fling 

On the twilight air — do you ask me why ? 

The years are gathered in this little tomb — 

(Strange that a grave in my hand I should hold) — 
Springs that showered their kisses of bloom, 

And summers that revelled in fruits of gold. 
No breath of the meadows nor orange bough 

Sheds to my spirit an odor so rare. 
You see not — how can you ? — what I see now — 

That marvellous face — are the angels so fair.? 

She gave me this bud and a single leaf — 

Geranium — it has crumbled away: — 
What a glory touched life then, but how grief 

Drives to tasks that sprinkle the head with gray ! 
Half doubting, I number the seasons since flown ; 

Like a star she just trembled on womanhood's eve ; 
To what in the garden of God has she grown ? 

Naught more fair than she was can my fancy con- 
ceive. 



Il6 IN THE LANE. 

For the roses of morning, and music, and light, 

The motions of birds, and the freshness of June, 
The glimmer of lilies, and childhood's delight, 

In her exquisite nature were blended in tune. 
Its sweetness yet lingers, like perfume that clings 

To the air when the splendor of blossoms has 
fled, 
More tender than touch of invisible wings 

The spell of her presence around me seems shed. 

And now, while this faded bud in my palm 

Grows dim in the darkness and still is dear, 
All over my sorrow is sprinkled a balm 

From the depths of a heavenly atmosphere. 
A hand long vanished I seem to hold. 

The years their glory of dreams restore, 
I see a face that can never grow old. 

And life looks large on the other shore. 



IN THE LANE. 
The roses lingering in the west, 

Soft lustre swooning through the sky, 
The meadow blossoms kissed to rest, 

A dying bird-song floating by. 

Old dusky woodlands soothed with balm 
On mountains hushed in twilight trance. 

The glossy eve's delicious calm, 

Drowsed by the stream's voluptuous dance. 



IN THE LANE. 

The soft dew silvering hawthorn bloom, 
Faint crimson buds along the ledge — 

Two faces in the tender gloom, 

Between the lindens and the hedge : — 

Two beamy faces young and sweet. 

Cheek meeting cheek in tenderest trust, 

White garlands strewn by waiting feet. 
And fire-flies showering golden dust. 

They made in this familiar place 

The sweet completion Nature sought, 

And all the scene's divinest grace 
Perfection from their beauty caught. 

There were no vows nor splendid speech 
To break love's tranced and golden dream. 

Heart flowed as truly, each to each, 
As in one channel stream with stream. 

There, in the May's embalmed repose. 
Fair as it always nursed with May, 

Their red lips flushing in one rose. 
Whose sweetness in each bosom lay. 

They seemed the perfect dream that steals. 
At times, adown our morning sky. 

And for one blessed hour reveals 
The joy that haunts us till we die. 



117 



Il8 PEWAUKEE. 

Like silvered raven-down the dark 

Kept floating through the hawthorn lane, 

And still the fire-fly's lustrous spark 
Fell on the dust like amber rain. 

A tremor through the daisied grass, 

A murmur like a happy bird, 
A low bough befit for one to pass, 

And all as if no leaf had stirred. 

The silvery dusk along the lane 

Kept stealing by the creamy hedge, 

And felt for those warm lips in vain. 
Clear to the runlets' grassy edge. 

Gone through the shadows — never more 
With cheek to cheek they hither came ; 

The great world crushes on, and o'er 
Its sweetest blossoms leaves no name. 



PEWAUKEE, 

The blackbirds are wooing, 

Reed-warblers are cooing, 
The marsh-hens are chatt'ring and scolding away ; 

The young leaves are gleaming 

In the soft sunshine streaming. 
From the blue, tender heaven of blossoming May. 

Pewaukee ! Pewaukee ! 



A VOICE IN THE DESERT. uq 

O lovely Pewaukee! 
We hasten to greet thee this beautiful day. 

The black bass are leaping, 

Where the still pools are sleeping, 
And the birds in the reeds trill their operas o'er ; 

While over us hover 

Like the breath of a lover 
The odors of apple-boughs white on the shore. 

Pewaukee ! Pewaukee ! 

Delicious Pewaukee ! 
We hail thee, and love thee, and taste thee once 

more ! 



A VOICE IN THE DESERT. 

The West was gorgeous with the sunset's splendors — 
The gathered flowers of light's resplendent crown ; 

Bloom after bloom did Paradise surrender, 
As if the gardens of the blest came down. 

The East was piled with clouds of storm and thun 
der — 
Huge mountains seamed with bolts of hurtling 
fire — 
Now swept by gales that tore their cliffs asunder, 
And then in weird convulsions heaving higher. 

O'er the Sun's couch the roses still kept blowing, 
And royal lilies starred with purple eyes ; 



I20 ^ VOICE IN THE DESERT. 

And banks of golden daffodils kept growing, 
Soft ridge on ridge, along the glowing skies. 

But down the gorges of the storm's sierras, 
The rain and hail in roaring cascades fell ; 

The lightning, playing like a dance of furies, 
Pictured the nameless scenery of hell. 

On the vast Plains where I beheld the vision — 
On one side beauty, on the other dread — 

Between the Tempest and the scene Elysian — 
An antelope unfrighted bowed its head. 

Beside a stunted shrub, alone, unfriended. 
It waited midst the awful desert place, 

As if at home and tenderly defended — 

Eve's radiance and the storm-glare on its face. 

I saw the dying of the western splendor, 
I saw the darkness of the tempest fall, 

And heard a mystic voice, in accents tender. 
Out of the brooding Terror to me call : — 

" O wanderer o'er life's deserts and its mountains, 
In storm and sunshine, with uncertain feet, 

Pining for joy of the immortal fountains. 

And clinging still to all of earth that's sweet, 

One heart is in the thunder and the roses. 
One hand the honey and the gall distils ; 



THE RIVER OF TEARS. 



121 



He who upon the Infinite reposes, 

His place in Heaven's grand order meetly fills. 

Whate'er his path, however sad its seeming, — 
The glory or the darkness overhead. 

Upon it Love's unchanging smile is beaming, 
And to the Perfect Good his steps are led." 



THE RIVER OF TEARS, 

In the ghastly dusk of cypress shade, 
O'er the beaten sands of a dismal glade, 
The River of Tears, with ceaseless flow. 
Rolls its bitter waves of human woe. 

The herbless mountains that gird the vale 
In an endless dawn stand cold and pale ; 
And the lustreless clouds droop down so low 
They touch the face of the stream below. 

No honeyed blossoms breathe balm around. 
In the funeral gloom that shrouds the ground, 
But dark, rank weeds reach greedily o'er 
To sip the surge on the level shore. 

Wild shrieks oft startle the dusky air, 
And the smothered howl of mad despair. 
While the pleading wai] of love's last cry 
Floats o'er the waves to the leaden sky. 



122 yOC/ AND I, 

In aimless courses deep foot-prints go, 
Of the suffering ones of long ago, — 
As the sad procession, with clasped hands, 
Went wandering over the barren sands. 

In the sullen shadows brooding here. 
Stalk pallid Sorrow and shivering Fear, 
Frail Youth, bent Age, and the bad and bold, 
And the gentle and good whose lives grow cold. 

In hopeless anguish some hide their eyes. 
And with pale, wan looks some watch the skies, 
Some beat their bosoms with frenzied stare, 
And some feel round in the empty air. 

Thus, in mournful groups they come and go; 
None tells to another his weight of woe ; 
And the swollen stream, 'neath the dusky shroud, 
Goes down to its sea of noiseless cloud. 



YOU AND L 

Sweet longings hinted at and guessed — 
Tender spiritual unrest — 
We cannot near each other live 
Unless we something take and give, — 

You and I. 



A VISION. 123 

PIa3ang with old regrets, we wait, 
Half happy, half accusing fate. 
A broken Hope is like a ghost ! 
We both seek something we have lost — 

You and I. 

Not often may such natures meet. 
So sweetly tender, subtly sweet : 
The instincts of pure souls are just — 
Now we may know in whom to trust — 

You and I. 

The world is cold, the world is vain : 
Apart, we both shall wear the chain. 
Our griefs make each the other's guest. 
Two hearts m one give perfect rest — 

You and I. 



A VISION. 

Before me rose a realm 
Silent, and vast, and vague with shapes unborn, 
Which fiery hands, with fateful force, did whelm, 

Ere dawned the natal morn. 

Myriads whose pulses beat 
Delicious tune with the maternal blood. 
Struck where Love's trusts are most divinely sweet. 

Sank in the shoreless flood. 



124 



A VISION. 



The frailest frames of man, 
Faint embr3'o forms that held the soul in place, 
Dim miniatures of all that fills the plan 

Of the great human race. 

What might have been, I said. 
Had these pale buds but come to Nature's flower ; 
What perfect fruits from royal boughs been shed — 

The ages' golden dower ! 

What stalwart sons of light, 
Regal with Wisdom's sceptre and its crown ! 
What daughters making Love's dominion bright, 

With virginal renown ! 

What lips of glorious speech, 
What clear-browed sovereigns o'er Thought's choiring 

spheres, 
What valiant hands to guard the Right and reach 

The prize of waiting years ! 

What souls to take the morn 
Of God's great glory in their eager eyes. 
And, trampling down all baseness with swift scorn, 

To Duty's summits rise ! 

What that is fair and true — 
Beauty whose splendors awe profane caress. 
Imperial natures that exhale the dew 

Of marvellous loveliness. 



THE FISHER BOY. 



125 



What that might not have grown 
To lordliest stature, grand in heart and brain, 
Bequeathing gifts that flash, from zone to zone, 

An unextinguished flame ! 

Victims of cruel doom, 
What are they, or what not, in that strange deep. 
Where, smitten birthless, falls the leaden gloom 

Of their mysterious sleep ? 

Shall cold oblivion fold 
Her pall forever o'er this countless host ? 
Or shall they yet with starry angels hold 

The crowns their mothers lost ? 



THE FISHER BOY. 

A statue by Hiram Powers. 

Moulded in pure and perfect grace, 
His white feet poised on silent sands, 

And boyhood's spirit on his face, 

A shape of life's best hour he stands. 

His net droops on the idle oar, 
He listens as to whispers dear — 

What hears he on the mighty shore. 
Pressing the sea-shell to his ear ? 



126 ^^^ FISHER BOY. 

Is it the soft-toned rapture caught 

From rosy hps of Naiades, 
That brims with pictured joy his thought 

Of the rare beauty of the seas ? 

Is it some loved unuttered name, 

Wooed by the waves from lands remote, 

Or echo of forgotten Fame, 

Kept in the shell's vermilion throat ? 

Or some strange syllables he seeks 
Of ancient Ocean's mystic lore — 

The solemn measures that she speaks 
With charmed tongues for evermore ? 

Still, listening in that keen suspense, 
What curious fancies come and go ; 

What pleasant wishes thrill his sense 

For what he ne'er, ah, ne'er shall know ! 

O artist ! in whose deathless thought 
This radiant being lived and grew. 

More glorious meaning hast thou wrought. 
Than first thy fair conception knew. 

For 'tis the type of Youth's rich trance 
Beside the wide world's unknown sea, 

Weaving the sweet tones of romance 
Into the promised bliss to be ; 



TO BRYANT. 127 

Of Youth that, on life's golden brim, 
Hears many a sweet, mysterious strain, 

And by sees splendid visions swim, 
It ne'er shall meet to love again : 

Youth yet all freshness — frail and fair — 
Whose tender trusts and loving will, 

Ere chilled by scorn or scarred by care, 
All time with speechless glory fill. 



TO BRYANT. 

Read at the Festival held by the Century Club, New York, in honor 
of his seventieth birthday, Nov. 3, 1864. 

Thy patient feet have reached to-day 
The allotted goal of human years. 

Thanks, thanks to Him who bids thee stay 
Awhile yet from the timeless spheres. 

Thanks for thy journey brave and long : 

A glorious pathway has it been, 
Melodious with majestic song. 

And hallowed in the hearts of men. 

Earth's face is dearer for thy gaze ; 

The fields that thou hast travelled o'er 
Are fuller-blossomed, and the ways 

Of toil more pleasant than before. 



128 TO BRYANT. 

The April pastures breathe more sweet, 
The brooks in deeper musings glide, 

Old woodlands grander hymns repeat, 
And holier seems the Autumntide. 

The crystal founts and Summer rains 
Are haunted now with pictured grace ; 

The winds have learned more tender strains, 
And greet us with more kind embrace. 

More meekly pleads each flow'ret's eye, 
On gentler errands comes the snow. 

And birds write on the evening sky 
More gracious lessons as they go. 

The stars, the clouds, the sea, the grave, 
Wide prairie wastes and crowded marts. 

All that is fair, and good, and brave, 
In peaceful homes and generous hearts 

Through thee their wondrous meanings tell ; 

And as men go to work and pray — 
Feeling thy song's persuasive spell — 

Love's face seems closer o'er their way. 

Before thee Error howled and fled ; 

And in thy path, though bold and strong. 
Oppression quailed. From thy hand sped 

The glittering shafts that crippled Wrong. 



A BIR THDA V L YRIC. \ 29 

And thy lips swelled the thrilling peal 

That roused the people to uphold 
The sacred cause of common weal. 

Oh, may thy happy eyes behold 

Fair Freedom's triumph, and the sway 
Of Peace which, after strife and pain, 

Shall usher the illustrious day 
Of a great Nation born again ! 

Smooth be thy latest stages here, 

Revered, and loved, and watched by those 

To whom thou seemest still more dear, 
The further on thy journey goes. 

And keeping still the childlike heart — 
Pure home of every sacred guest — 

At last, in perfect peace, depart, 
O Bryant, to thy blissful rest. 



A BIRTHDAY LYRIC. 

Lead me 'mong blossoms white 
In the early amber light. 
Away from teasing care, 
And let the charmed air 

With luscious tone 

Soothe me with strains unknown. 



130 



A BIRTHDAY LYRIC. 

Oh ! heap the blossoms sweet 

About my face and feet, 

Till half the blushing sky, 

And the nook wherein I lie 

Are curtained most deliciously. 

With odors deluge me, 

With rose-light and low melody ; — 

For I would dream, until earth seems 

What once it promised m my dreams. 

radiant land ! where my young eyes 
Saw angels in the happy skies. 

And felt Love's arms in all the air, 
And heard Hope singing everywhere, — 
Sweet land of boyhood ! Rose unblown ! 
Delicious, heart-enfolded Zone ! 

How soon — too soon 

The burning Noon 
Drank all thy dew from bud and leaf, 
And seared the bowers of young Belief. 

The drifting sands before me spread 
With murky redness overhead ; 

1 faint with fighting wrong and sin. 
To-day, oh, let me enter in 

The gardens beautiful of yore. 

And live again my May-life o'er. 

I may come forth more firm and strong 

To deal with error, blame, and wrong ; 

Upon my heart fresh dew shall lie. 

And heaven seem nearer to mine eve. 



BRYANT. 



131 



BRYANT. 

Read at the celebration of his eightieth birthday by the Chicago Literary Club. 

The sweetest blossoms any bring 
To deck, to-day, thy muse's throne. 

Are those that out of pure hearts spring 
From seed thy fruitful life has sown. 

How deep thy living thought struck down 
In grateful souls throughout the land ; 

The splendid flowers of thy renown 
In myriad leaves of light expand. 

They bloom in virtues strong and true. 
In deeds that make our kinship sweet, 

Chaste homes, and lives of spotless hue, 
In love that serves with tireless feet ; 

In patriot Zeal ; in Honor's breast ; 

Where Duty runs without debate ; 
Where Nature feasts her reverent guest, 

And Faith waits calmly "At the Gate.'* 

These garlands of the spirit live 
While festal splendors pass away : 

Thousands on thousands tribute give 
To thee, O kingly bard, to-day. 



132 THE OLD CHIMNEY PLACE. 

Thanks for thy pure, majestic song, 
Thy golden years o'er measured span, 

Thy valiant will to smite the wrong. 
Thy vast, unconquered love of man. 

Thanks for thy simple faith and truth : 
Thanks for thy wisdom deep and calm, 

The freshness kept of generous youth. 
Thy life — a sweet, triumphant psalm. 

Earth's children catch its strains sublime 
As ages bear along thy name. 

And down the glowing fields of time 
The wise and good reflect thy fame. 



THE OLD CHIMNEY PLACE. 

A STACK of stones, a dingy wall. 

O'er which the brambles cling and creep, 
A path on which no shadows fall, 

A door-step where long dock-weeds sleep, 
A broken rafter in the grass, 

A sunken hearthstone stained and cold, — 
Naught left but these, fair home, alas 1 

And the dear memories of old. 

Around this hearth, this sacred place, 
All humble household virtues grew, — 



THE OLD CHIMNEY PLACE. 



133 



The grandsire's lore, the maiden's grace, 
The matron's instincts deep and true : 

Here first sweet words were lisped ; here broke 
Life's morning dream, and, yet more dear, 

The love that life's best impulse woke. 
Grew warmer, gentler, year by year. 

How cheerful, while the storm without 

Muffled the earth and iced the night, 
The ruddy glow gushed laughing out 

On merry groups and faces bright ; 
How chimed the crackling, freakish flame 

With rosy mirth and thoughtful ease. 
Or, may be, syllabled the name 

Of one rocked o'er the shivering seas. 

What fairy scenes, what golden lands. 

What pageants of romantic pride. 
In the weird deep of glowing brands, 

Saw the fair boy, the dreamy-eyed ; 
Till, musing here, his spirit drew 

Strong inspiration, and his years, 
By Beauty's subtle nurture, knew 

The paths of Nature's inner spheres. 

Here, as the swooning embers sent 
A faint flush through the quiet gloom, 

In the warm hush have lovers blent 

The fragrance of the heart's fresh bloom ; 

And veiling in soft-drooping eyes 

Her tremulous joy, here blushed the bride ; 



134 



HYMN. 



Here, o'er pale forms in funeral guise, 

Farewells from stricken hearts were sighed. 

This spot the pilgrim, 'neath strange skies, 

Saw in his wayside dream ; here stood 
Old friends with gladness in their eyes : 

Here grew the beautiful and good — 
Sweet friendships — faith serene and sure — 

Manhood's strong purpose warm and bold — 
Courage to labor and endure, 

And household feelings never cold. 

Here, leaning in the twilight dim. 

All round me seems a haunted air: 
I hear the old familiar hymn. 

My heart goes upwards in the prayer 
That made the night so full of peace ; 

Kind lips are on my brow — my ear 
Hums with sweet sounds — they faint — they 
cease — 

And night o'er all broods calm and clear. 
1854. 



HYMN OF THE MOTHERS OF OUR VOL- 
UNTEERS. 

Home calls each loved familiar name 
With precious memories stored : 

Deal gently, Lord ! 'twas not for fame 
Our children took the sword. 



HYMN. 135 

We never thought when each young face 

First softly touched our own, 
And Httle hands with sweet embrace 

About our necks were thrown, 

That our own veins were nursing then 

The holy cause of Right, 
And that from our own bosoms men 

Would spring to Freedom's fight. 

We cannot deem the offering vain, 

Our dearest though we give ; 
Nor do we ask release from pain, 

If but the Nation live. 

Still, sometimes, as alone we kneel 

Where once the cradle stood. 
So much comes back, 'tis hard to feel 

That all our grief is good. 

The rosy cheeks, so round and fair. 

The pattering little feet, 
The laughing eyes and silken hair 

Of those whose touch was sweet, 

Rise up amid the glare and din 

Of battle's fiery tide. 
And flit past prison bars, within 

Which Love is crucified ! 



136 



HYMN. 



We know we bade them go, when stirred 

The land from sea to sea, 
For 'twas thy voice, O Christ, they heard 

Proclaiming liberty. 

But, oh, this travail long and sore, 

Watching their woful way, 
And never able to do more 

Than serve at home and pray. 

It seems as if the mother's hand 

Might soothe the suffering best, 
And that the mother ought to stand 
By children laid at rest. 

Forgive us all our doubts and fears 

While Thy great work goes on ; 
We do rejoice amid our tears. 
And pray, " Thy will be done." 

Thy will — good will — its message now 
Of promised peace grows strong, 

And flashing on War's awful brow, 
Declares the doom of Wrong. 

It is enough. Out from the gloom 

Rises a Nation free ! 
Still, at the cross and by the tomb, 

We cling, O Lord, to Thee. 
January, 1865. 



A LESSON FROM THE SKY. 137 



A LESSON FROM THE SKY. 

The sun is set, and still as Time 

The great sky broods benign and calm 

Neglected, like some ancient rhyme, 
I stand and wonder that I am ! 

Athwart the portals of the west 

One fiery cloud slopes still and stern, 

While, waking from delicious rest, 
A single star begins to burn. 

The glory of the western throne 
By yon red arm is guarded now : 

O young heart ! toiling here alone, 

What to the world's great strength art thou ? 

But lo ! I see the star-urn pour 

Its soothing light beyond the skies, 

While, pale as sand-ribs on the shore. 
The shrunken cloud in darkness lies. 

Young heart, be strong ! for thee the star 
In heaven's serene and tender deep : 

The world's dread arm thy course may bar, — 
It wastes with every watch ye keep. 
1853. 



138 OUR SISTER. 



OUR SISTER, 

Her face was very fair to see — 

So luminous with purity ; 

It had no roses, but the hue 

Of lilies lustrous with their dew — 

Her very soul seemed shining through ! 

Her quiet nature seemed to be 

Tuned to each season's harmony. 

The holy sky bent near to her ; 

She saw a spirit in the stir 

Of solemn woods. The rills that beat 

Their mosses with voluptuous feet, 

Went dripping music through her thought. 

Sweet impulse came to her unsought 

From graceful things, and Beauty took 

A sacred meaning in her look. 

In the great Master's steps went she 

With patience and humility. 

The casual gazer could not guess 

Half of her veiled loveliness ; 

Yet, ah ! what precious things lay hid 

Beneath her bosom's snowy lid : — 

What tenderness and sympathy. 

What beauty of sincerity, 

What fancies chaste, and loves that grew 

In heaven's own stainless light and dew. 



BONNIE. 1 39 

True woman was she day by day 

In suffering, toil, and victory. 
Her life, made holy and serene 
By faith, was hid with things unseen. 
She knew what they alone can know 
Who live above, but dwell below. 



BONNIE. 

Under the crimson trees that sighed, 
Under the sod whose flowers were sere, 

We laid our fair young Bonnie aside 
'Mid the hectic glow of the dying year. 

Little the change to most, indeed — 
A sunbeam less to gladden the earth, 

A frail blossom broken that few would heed, — 
How mean is the great world's measure of worth 1 

Filling our hearts with a calm content. 
Tinting our future with hues of gold — 

How faded the lustre her presence lent 

To common things, when her lips grew cold ! 

Tenderest face that won us so, 

Softest eyes where we used to see 
Love on its heavenly journey go, — 

As God's will is, it is best to be. 



140 



ARISS. 



Best, we trust, though the cloud is dark ; 

The Smiter to her was more than dear : 
Her spirit rose to Him as the lark 

Rises and sings when the sky is clear. 

All for the best, though it seems not so — 
Losing our treasures that we may save. 

Little of all love is can we know 
Till we leave our darling asleep in the grave. 



ARISS. 

Our loves were so inwove and blent, 
So rich in trust and calm content, 
It did not seem that love could draw 
Her from us by its mystic law. 
Yet, somehow, in her look and tone 
We felt she was not all our own ; 
Something within her nature bore 
The fragrance of the heavenly shore : 
The bud could only blossom where 
God's perfect smile was light and air. 

How many pictures did we make 
Of years to come for her dear sake. 
We saw her beauty gather bloom, 
And love for deeper love make room, 
Her spirit ripen as it drew 
From all things lovely light and dew, 



TO ROBERT COLL YE R. i^t 

And, breathing sweetness everywhere, 
Her life reach upward like a prayer. 
Alas ! for summers never born, 
For purple eve and golden morn. 
For hearts that ache, and eyes that swim 
In sorrow till the world is dim. 
In her fair face we shall not see 
The tenderness which was to be : 
We shall not feel through quiet days 
The blessing of her graceful ways ; 
The seasons shall not nurse and teach 
With soft caress and golden speech 
Her tender thought, nor shall we view 
In her love daily something new. 
Nor see Christ making lustrous white 
The life He fills with peace and light. 



TO ROBERT COLLYER. 

I MISS thy face, dear friend, thy voice, thy hand — 
Thy rugged face through which the clear soul 

shines. 
Thy voice, now plaintive as the moan of pines. 

And then a trumpet mighty in command ; 

Thy honest palm whose grasp all understand. 
Though pleasant be the places where the lines 
Are fallen to me, yet my heart repines 

Oft for the gardens of that goodly land 



142 



A SUNSET AT LONG MO NT, COLORADO, 



Where our souls wandered, when they haply met, 
With yearnings strong for man's diviner day. 

And landscapes blossomed which no tears could 
wet. 
Till old things fit to perish passed away, 

And life to God's great harmony was set. 
And Love was monarch with unhindered sway. 



A SUNSET AT LONGMONT, COLORADO. 

We've journeyed through the mountains. There 

they stand, 
Broad-based, majestic, in a grand repose, 
Some three leagues westward. Longmont welcomes 

us; 
And, while we rest this balmy summer eve 
At hospitable thresholds, all the sky, 
As if to consecrate our holiday. 
And make our precious memories more dear, 
Puts on unwonted glory : and our eyes. 
Like those of Moses in the mount, are smit 
With sudden splendor. For the sinking sun 
Hidden, is not repressed, but pours its light 
Upward and far aslant on flocks of cloud 
Along the clear horizon's narrow rim, 
Down the great gulfs of everlasting rock,. 
O'er shining peaks, the distant Snowy Range, 
And Long's high crown, while all the nearer hills, 
In tender shadow, watch the miracle. 



A SCINSE T AT L ONGMOA'T, COL OR A DO. 1^3 

Spread to the right, and gleaming, fold on fold, 
Vermilion, saffron, pink, and pearly white, 
The gorgeous banners of the clouds are flung, 
Waving and tossing in resplendent surge, 
Above a belt of deep, delicious sky, 
Whose liquid opal, perfect, passionless, 
Runs to a field of luminous emerald, 
Broidered with swaying fringe of crimson fire. 
More southward, fleecy draperies touched with rose 
Float on the air, and, here and there, droop low 
Upon the shoulders of the purple peaks. 
O'erhead the arrows of the hidden sun 
Flash, now and then, on cliffs of ragged cloud : 
And plumes of radiance like strange tropic birds. 
Flit through the open spaces of the blue. 
High up, amid the awful gaps of rock. 
Between the ranges, a soft sea of bloom — 
The lustrous pollen of this sunset-flower — 
Throbs, wave on wave, against the granite shore. 
Wondrous the billows of this golden mist, — 
Sweet, tender, lucent, as if purest dews 
Of Paradise had washed the starry sheen 
From heaven's choicest blossoms, and poured all, 
A perfect incense to the unseen God. 
Unasked we join the worship of the hour. 
Breathless with indescribable applause. 
The sacred spell of Beauty on us lies. 
And Power that dwells in light's essential throne, 
And Love in which all that is good is born. 
The curtains of the glowing deep are drawn. 



144 ^^^ ^^^* 

And, through the vista garlanded with gold, 
O'er amethystine herbage, lawns of rose, 
Pure streams where lilies of the angels blow, 
Far towards the sightless glory of the Lord, 
Our hearts are borne in utterless content, 
Renewed and resting on the Infinite. 



OUR BOY. 

He came, we know not how, 'mid fears 

And sorrows ripening with the years. 

Dropped out of Heaven in our distress, — 

Incarnate dream of loveliness, — 

Flushing to rose our cloud-draped days 

And voicing our unrest with praise. 

His trustful eyes God's grace beamed through 

The earth in his sweet smile was new ; 

His life set all discordant strains 

To cheerful tune and glad refrains. 

Interpreted the deeper speech 

Our hearts would fain each other teach, 

Bade us Love's vaster world descry, 

And spelled its tenderest mystery. 

He greets us now a dancing beam 
In which Hope's deathless pictures gleam, 
A Flower on which Christ's peace is sent, 
A Star of Love's clear firmament, 



THE NEW YEAR. j^^ 

A breath of Eden's lost perfume 

That scents the house from room to room, 

A wingbd Joy that hovers where 

The old ache was so hard to bear. 



THE NEW YEAR. 

A Flower unblown : a Book unread : 
A Tree with fruit unharvested : 
A Path untrod : a House whose rooms 
Lack yet the heart's divine perfumes : 
A Landscape whose wide border lies 
In silent shade 'neath silent skies : 
A wondrous Fountain yet unsealed : 
A Casket with its gifts concealed : — 
This is the Year that for you waits 
Beyond To-morrow's mystic gates. 

Oh, may this Flower unfold to you 
Visions of beauty sweet and new ; 
This Book on golden pages trace 
Your sacred joys and deeds of grace. 
May all the fruit of this strange Tree 
Luscious and rosy-tinted be ; 
This Path through fields of knowledge go ; 
This House with love's content o'erflow ; 
This Landscape glitter with the dew 
Of blessed hopes and friendships true ; 



146 



TO WILLIAM F. COOLBAUGH. 

This Fountain's living crystal cheer, 
As fail the springs that once were dear; 
This Casket with such gems be stored 
As shine in lives that love the Lord. 



TO WILLIAM F. COOLBAUGH. 

On his Birthday. 

Like one who waits 'neath an embowering vine, 
On some green cliff that looks upon the sea, 
And far away o'er mountain, vale, and lea. 

Where the enchantment to his senses fine — 

The subtile charm of Nature's sacred wine — 
Breathes joy, and awe, and tender mystery ; 

So thou, to-day, confronting all thy years. 

Dost view the landscape which thy heart endears — 
Youth's rosy fields and skies with promise set. 

Paths that in manhood led to fair renown. 

And holy graves with memory's dew-drops wet. 

Care's rugged steps, and labor's splendid crown. 

What pageants pass ! what hands are waved afar ! 

How strangely sweet the ancient voices are ! 

Thy household treasures show their dimless gold : 
Young faces look in thine, and young lips teach 
Thy heart life's sweetest truths in songful speech : 

Home's peerless Flower festoons the new and old. 

Thanks to thy helpful hand and tireless brain. 
The graces learned in Friendship's gentle school, 



MEMORIAL DAY. 



^A7 



The wisdom that can cheer and guide and rule, 
The spirit that in virtue reckons gain. 
How many barques are wrecked whose pennons flew 

In softer airs than ever favored thine ! 
Rough seas or fair, our way is always through 

The unknown deep : but fadeless landscapes shine 
For him whose life is freighted with the store 
Of that which thrives on the immortal shore. 



MEMORIAL DAY. 

Out of thine azure depths, O sun benign ! 
Shower thy golden kisses on the May ; 

Drink, fertile fields, kind Nature's mystic wine 

Till every herb throbs with a life divine — 
Let not a single dew-drop go astray. 

Brood, moistened airs, with warm and fragrant wing 
On all the vales, and haste with glowing feet, 
Ye soft-lipped Hours, to make the landscape sweet, 

Till earth shall burst to flowers — a perfect spring ! 
O vernal season ! give your richest blooms — 
Rare radiance woven in celestial looms, 
The subtlest meanings of each tint and tone 
That Beauty keeps about her peerless throne ; 

Our hearts ache with unsyllabled applause. 
We are unworthy, but for those who lie 

In graves made holy by their life-blood shed — 

The hero youth who took our perilled cause 



1^8 MEMORIAL DAY. 

And thought it sweet and beautiful to die, 
That freedom's fields by us be harvested, 
We crave the choicest emblems to impart 
The sense of that which blossoms in the heart. 
Even then how meagre is our speech to breathe 

Our thanks, our praise, our love, our joyous pride, — 
Seraphic hands alone are fit to wreathe 

Chaplets for those who kissed our flag and died. 
O sacred dust ! O precious seed that bears 

The blessed fruits that make a people strong, — 
Life out of death ; Right victor over Wrong. 
We bow to Him who wisely smites and spares, 
Who gives the spirit that endures and dares, 
The love of man and the heroic will. 
He is the Lord, our strength and refuge still ! 
The nation lives. After War's bloody showers. 
The air is sweet with Freedom's stainless flowers. 
Let praise ascend and gratulations grand, — 
The graves of martyrs consecrate the land. 
O shrines of Duty ! Honor's deathless urns ! 
By you more deep our patriot ardor burns. 
The gates are lifted of th' historic years, — 
Lo ! musterings, partings, watchings, sudden fears, 
The march, the fiery charge, the loved and slain, 
Foul prison-pens, and all the hope and pain 
Of war's suspense, our prayers, the welcome word 
That smote the bondsman's fetters like a sword, 
Our Lincoln dead ! — what pictures rise and rise, 
Until the tears well up from heart to eyes, 
And then with light across our future gleaming, 



WITH BRYANT AT HIS BIRTHPLACE. 

Rainbows of promise beautiful and bright 

Span all the years, and all the sky is streaming 
With Union banners red and blue and white : 
The Truth is strong, God will defend the Right. 



WITH BRYANT AT HIS BIRTHPLACE. 

Upon the hills where first he saw the day, 

Broad-shouldered hills with dusky glens between. 

And solemn groves of immemorial trees, 

Where fountains gush, and birds of plaintive note 

Make the strange stillness seem a living soul ; 

Past meadow-slopes, down arcades of green lanes, 

And over fields but little trod of men, 

'Mid stunted herbs and beds of straggling briar, 

We rambled oft and long. Now strayed our feet 

To the wild margin of the mountain-stream. 

And where the cornice of the wood hung low, 

And in the orchard's forest-walled recess ; 

And then they paused where we could look afar 

On village spires and homesteads in the haze, 

As on a picture in the land of dreams ; 

Or o'er huge, highland bosses, past Deerhill, 

To Graylock silent in the summer sky. 

At times we sauntered on the public way, 

Free from the scrutiny of curious eyes ; 

And sometimes on the rocks, his youthful seat 

At noon between the Sunday services. 

In hollows where 'twas twilight all day long, 



49 



ISO 



WITH BRYANT A T HIS BIRTHPLACE. 



On sunny summit and by shaded spring, 
We stood and lingered ; he meanwhile 
Greeting with kindly converse all the shows 
Of wondrous Nature, quoting aptly verse 
Of richest flavor, giving voice again 
To old traditions of the place, which shed 
A tender light on his own tender years, 
And, with such anecdote as genius tells 
To make the truth more like her own true self, 
Coining the gold of wisdom as he spake. 
And then, perchance, slight bent, with folded arms, 
Rapt in the scene that filled his inner eye, 
He walked a king of undisputed realms. 
Unconscious of his greatness and his sway. 
'Twas here in this old forest, when a boy, 
As on him fell the Seer's sacred fire. 
He hymned his Thanatopsis. This wild field 
Contains the unmarked Graves that wooed his muse 
To tender descent o'er the aged pair 
Who sleep together on the lone, bleak hill. 
Here glides the little Rivulet whose birth 
Is in the thicket's borders, prattling still 
As in the Poet's childhood, and as sweet 
As when it taught him its pathetic song. 
Before the entrance to this noble wood, 
For which the grand Inscription was designed, 
We mused as by some hoary sanctuary. 
And, entering 'mid its coolness and repose. 
Talked in low tones of what is most august 
In all the marvel of our human life. 



WITH BR YAXT A T HIS BIR TIIPLA CE. \ ^ i 

There, under the great canopy of green, 

He stooped and plucked, with the same reverent 

hand 
That threescore years and ten had plucked before, 
The Yellow Violet — not the blossom now 
(For 'twas midsummer), but the pods of seed, 
And gave me. As he bent like one in prayer, 
And lifted tenderly the lowly leaves, 
And with caressing fingers showed me how 
The plant was fashioned in its moist, cool bed, 
I wondered at the thoughts that in his heart 
Must blossom now, as Memory looked back, 
And at the pictures of his pilgrimage 
That rose and glowed before him, touched with hues 
Of all that made his life so beautiful. 
Since, in fair youth, he learned the lesson breathed 
By this meek floweret of the early Spring. 

So passed the days, where, in his manhood's 

strength. 
Returning to his native hills, he led 
His fair young daughter with delighted eye 
To look upon the landscape that he loved ; 
And where the blue Fringed Gentian not in vain 
Pleaded for trust in Heaven, and where he drew 
The dazzling stores that make his Winter Piece ; 
Where, too, in these late years his thrifty hand 
Had planted groves of larch and birch, and set 
Orchards of pear and apple, built for miles 
A highway firm along the mountain-side, 
For public use, and where, with generous aim, 



152 



THE APRIL SNOW. 

In a sweet nook beside the river's curve, 
He reared a solid structure proof to fire — 
A Library free to all the region round. 
Sweet days like Sabbaths ministering life ! 
Walks leading ever to a holier place ! 
A clearer air is round me, and calm forms 
Of the immortals look upon my face. 
August, 1S76. 



THE APRIL SNOW. 

Four Aprils only had she known, 

Four days the pansies blew ; 
The spring, though scarcely half outblown, 

Such sweetness never knew. 

Her joy was in these flowers, they wore 

For her their tenderest grace ; 
Sweet fortunes seemed for both in store, 

To see them face to face. 

A cold cloud muffled up the blue, 

A shadow crossed the stair, 
A strange fear chilled us through and through, 

Ere v;e were half aware. 

Without, the darkness seemed to flow 

With sorrows never said. 
Within, our hearts heaved to and fro 

About a little bed. 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

Mom shook its light, a golden shower, 
On snows o'er pansies blown ; 

Faith saw the shroud about our Flower 
To marvellous beauty grown. 

Soon from the wasted snow the bloom 
Of flowers glowed more bright, — 

Well knew we she would leave the tomb, 
A radiant child of light. 



SUNDA Y E VENING, 

The twilight of the evening lies 
On quiet homes and tender skies ; 
The sacred silence seems to bring 
A blessing on its brooding wing, 
And all the hallowed Sabbath air 
Is like the calm of silent prayer. 

O precious calm ! O healing rest ! 

That broods so warmly in my breast ; 

It seems that on my life doth lie 

The peace that soothes the upper sky ; — 

A large contentment, in whose grace 

Joy wells like light in liberal space, 

A tranquil trust, a hope whose eye 

Is full of immortality. 

And love whose sweetness freshens through 

My being like celestial dew. 



153 



154 ^-^^ ANGELS' BRIDGE. 

Thanks ! Father, that thy Church once more 
On life's vain strife has shut the door, 
And to a holy feast doth win 
Her waiting, wandering children in. 
Thanks ! for Thy grace hath been to-day 
More than we dared to hope or pray ; 
The cloud of mercy hung above 
Has broken with the weight of love. 



THE ANGELS' BRIDGE. 

Whene'er a rainbow slept along the sky 
The gracious child expected angel-bands 

Would glide upon its gorgeous path of light 

With half-furled wings and meekly folded hands. 

For he had dreamed the rainbow was a bridge 
On which came bright ones from a far-off shore, — 

A strange and pleasant dream — but he believed — 
And his young heart with love's sweet faith ran o'er. 

How full of dreamy hopefulness his face. 
How many tender welcomes filled his eyes 

When, for celestial visitants, he watched. 
In mute and holy converse with the skies. 

The gentle child grew very wan and weak ; 

And as he lay upon the bed of pain, 
One day of storm, to those who watched him, said, 

" When will the Angels' Bridge reach down again t " 



A MURMUR OF MAY. 



155 



In musing trance, while gazing on the clouds 

A flood of sunlight lit the humid air, 
And springing forth as if from God's own arms, 

A royal rainbow shone divinely there. 

A tender smile played o'er the sufferer's lips — 
" Down the bright arch the white-robed Angels 
come ! 
O see their shining pinions ! — their sweet eyes ! " 
He said — and 'mid their soft embraces floated 
home. 



A MURMUR OF MAY. 

I AM cropping the violets to-day in the meadows, 
Where in childhood I gathered them blameless as 
they ; 

The birds in the sunshine float singing around me, 
And heaven is over me tender with May. 

I am waiting to-day by the streamlet which prattles 
And laughs through the vale, as it glides to the 
sea : — 
The same happy brooklet that, in my bright spring- 
time, 
So charmed me with stories of what I should be. 

I am straying to-day 'mid the orchard whose odors 
Touched my heart with an exquisite rapture when 
young : — 



56 



NEWNESS OF LIFE, 



The blossoms, and robins, and gladness of children, 
Make a poem more perfect than ever was sung. 

I am musing to-day where the fresh grass is growing 
On mounds that were not when my summers were 
few, 
And the violets, the brook, and the apple-boughs 
bring me 
All the sweetness and sadness I have tasted life 
through. 



NEWNESS OF LIFE. 

Yes, all is plain ! I see ! 
I live, I am made free ! 

Love, my new-found guest ! 
Sweet peace, and sweetest rest I 
What shall I do, what say 

In this rare morn which is true life's first day ? 

All round are odors blowr 

And, with soft undertone. 
Faint music pants in all the glowing air ; 
The waters call in many a flower-fringed stream 

The earth is very fair. 

And, through the depths of tender sky, 

Floats many a cloud-bright argosy ; 
But I have tasted something more divine. 

1 see a glory brighter than the May, 

I hear what seraphs to each other say, 

A heavenly heart is throbbing against mine. 



ABIDE WITH US, j^y 

These earthly blossoms cannot make my crown, 
Celestial strains this earthly music drown, 
I look, as through an open door, 
On landscapes that shall fade no more. 

O Saviour, Jesus, it is all of Thee — 
This sacred sense of what I'm made to be, 
Thy perfect self and my infirmity, — 
All, all of Thee, — the veil removed, 
The joy that springs in being loved, 
The faith that asks no higher place 
Than sight of Thy forgiving face. 

Nearer and nearer, Lord, and nearer still, 

Thy work begun, fulfil, 
Shape all my life according to Thy will. 

Thou knowest how I aspire : 

Accept my strong desire, 
Hope, heart, and mind — my spirit's deepest 

deep, — 
Take all to feed and keep, 

Till my whole soul to Love's full flower is blown. 
And Love's full flower to perfect fruit is grown. 



''ABIDE WITH US: FOR IT IS TOWARD 
EVENINGr 

The tender light is fading where 

We pause and linger still, 
And, through the dim and saddened air, 

We feel the evening chill. 



158 



ABIDE WITH US. 



Long hast thou journeyed with us, Lord, 

Ere we thy face did know ; 
O still Thy fellowship afford, 

As dark the shadows grow. 

For passed is many a beauteous field 

Beside our morning road ; 
And many a fount to us is sealed, 

That once so freshly flowed. 

The splendor of the noon-tide lies 

On other paths than ours : 
The dews that lave yon fragrant skies, 

Will not revive our flowers. 

It is not now as in the glow 

Of life's impassioned heat, 
When to the heart there seemed to flow 

All that of earth was sweet. 

Something has faded — something died, 

Without us and within : 
We more than ever need a guide, 

Blinded and weak with sin. 

The weight is heavy that we bear, 
Our strength more feeble grows : 

Weary with toil, and pain, and care, 
We long for sweet repose. 



ABIDE WITH US. 

Stay with us, gracious Saviour, stay, 
While friends and hopes depart ; 

Fainting, on Thee we wish to lay 
The burden of our heart. 

Abide with us : dear Lord, remain, 
Our Life, our Truth, our Way, 

So shall our loss be turned to gain, 
Night dawn to endless day. 



159 



